A Loyal Subject
by Sincerely Marigold
Summary: Captain Bordon gives a firsthand account of his humble roots before becoming a soldier and how his career with the Green Dragoons changed him for the better and the worse. Parallels with my fic, "The Butcher's Daughter" and was partially inspired by the TV show, "Turn: Washington's Spies".
1. Call Me Boris

I delivered parcels before I was a soldier. Enlisting was a clean cut, a diversion from my prior occupation. Everyone along my route knew my name and expected a conversation every time I rapped on their door. The familiarity made me nervous. I was, and remain to this day, a man with a mind that is infinitely louder than his voice. Being a soldier meant that I could remain mobile while sparing the demand for speech. A soldier's job, when all is said and done, is to be quick, accurate and silent and I knew that I would meet those requirements. And so I did. I left the dark, low-lying banks and the unkempt woodlands of New Jersey behind me for a cause and an identity that I adhered to but did not fully understand.

It was not in New York, but in Ballard Estate, five miles from where I was born, that my future was decided. Coincidentally, that building and everything around it was also a relic of my past. The steady, upward climb of the years has yet to rob me of my memories of the Ballard Family. Perhaps committing these painful scenes to the page will finally allow me to vacate my mind of their dark and lavish home on the hillside. Every day, it seemed, throughout my days of youth, I would carry hat and dress boxes up the footpath that led to their heavy wooden door. On the woodwork were deep carvings of swans in flight or gliding with weightless grace on the smooth indention of a lake. The door would swing wide open without fail and I would be welcomed in by their grinning maid.

"The dresses and the hats! The dresses and the hats!" A quartet of young sylphs would loudly chime as they flitted in from the surrounding corridors. The boxes grew along with them as they became older and taller. But their responses would remain the same. Not one of the four of the girls, clothed and styled like priceless porcelain dolls, would ask for my name or about my day. They would simply tear into packaging, remove their lacy, jeweled treasures and vanish like the perfect apparitions that they were. Sylvia, the youngest, would stay behind and complain to me when the items fell short or were damaged in some way. I ducked out the first couple of times that this happened and she quickly learned to scream for her father, thus forcing me into a corner that I would come to anticipate with dread.

The man of the house and adoring father to the four girls was General Lawrence Ballard. He struck such fear into my heart the day that he wandered from the lap of his elegant upstairs office to see what the fuss was about. The pieces of the quaking chandelier that hung just inside the doorway glistened and sang with every step he took. I nearly expected the thing would dislodge itself and send a million bits of ringing glass for my head like tiny guillotines. But the song of the chandelier halted to a stop, leaving only the noise of crying Sylvia as the General strode towards me. I bowed quickly and lowly, robbing myself of any glimpse of the man's face or build. He did not address me. In fact, he hardly seemed to realize that I was there at all.

"Papa! The hat arrived broken! I'd ask for Cynthia's but her head is so much fatter than my own!"

All that I could see were the heels of Sylvia's shiny shoes as her father scooped her up in his arms. He cleared his throat and I straightened out, fearing that he would blame me for the condition of the hat. But he did not. He turned his back to me and I witnessed the profile of the portly, balding man as he pulled one of the lingering young ladies from the floor where she had been doting upon her unbroken hat.

"Floors are for walking upon, not sitting," the articulate British General stated before leaving with his fitful daughter pounding her hands against his back and shoulders.

This pattern continued for weeks, then months. The eldest of the Ballard Girls, Celeste, quickly stole my fancy with the lovely, tender smiles that she gave from over the top of her ribboned parcels. Had I not been so distracted by her stare, I would have learned how young Sylvia would deliberately sabotage the items that I bore. A pair of small, metal scissors were stowed against the inseam of her dress. When she believed that nobody was looking, she would snip and tatter, hide "misplaced" rhinestones in her stockings and shoes, and throw a noisy tantrum so that I might leave the estate, bogged down with items that needed to be repaired or replaced. I obliged, of course. Not so much out of the fear of losing my job, but for the opportunity to share a wordless exchange with sweet Celeste on days that I would otherwise not be heading to the Ballard Estate.

General Ballard seemed impressed with my tenacity and commented more than once on how strong my occupation must have made me. At one point, he summoned me to his office to apologize firsthand for how greatly Sylvia was mistreating me. I wanted to explain what I had seen when my eyes wandered from Celeste to the child, who had "grown" into a childish teenager at this point. But I remained silent and did not disclose what Sylvia's parcels actually contained.

Being a poor boy who provided service for wealthy families, I witnessed my fair share of scandals. But none were so enticing as the one involving Sylvia Ballard. Perhaps I am biased because it was I who carried her parcels, thus mediating whatever secrets could be found in the small envelopes and boxes that were lodged between those seemingly innocent gowns and trivial bonnets. As I eased into my final years in the industry, I learned two important things about Sylvia, the first was that she never removed the expensive doeskin gloves from her hands and the second was that she worked by code. The snipping of a button on the righthand sleeve of an unworn dress produced a narrow box with its repair. A rip along the crown of headwear bore the promise of a wide envelope. The list goes on and on. But these items would always be hidden away before her father, the maid, or her sisters could uncover the secret behind her theatrics.

"Your leniency towards Sylvia is outstanding," General Ballard said to me before I departed, "my daughters are all I have in this world. The least that I can do is grant them their hearts' desires."

I only nodded, resorting to silence as was my way.

"I've seen you nearly everyday and watched you grow beneath the weight of a thousand boxed gowns that were destined to be worn only once before being discarded. Call me sentimental, if you will, but I feel almost parental towards you, Boy. Yet, not once have I asked you for your name."

"I am the man who delivers parcels to your homestead, General. Let that be enough." It was not. He pressed once, then twice until finally, I answered with minimal pride, "Boris Bordon."

His eyebrows shot up with such force that the entirety of his bald, smooth head creased along with his forehead. "Boris Bordon? Good Lord. That is simply awful."

"It was you who requested my name, Sir." I lowered my eyes and shared a quiet, bashful laugh with the polished floor.

"Do you intend on delivering parcels for the remainder of your life, Master Bordon? Forgive my intrusion, but can one truly support a family with such small funds?" He read the offence that had been innately plastered across my face by this comment and proceeded, anyway. "If you were given the opportunity to do something truly meaningful with your life, would you take it?"

"If you are speaking of recruitment, Sir," I replied, still staring deeply into the glistening floorboards, "both of my parents are dead and I have no siblings. I am able to provide for myself alone and would only risk death for an increase in pay if I had addition mouths to feed."

"You would not risk death for King and country?"

Blood began to thump loudly in my ears, the sound of the girls playing piano in the neighboring parlor distorted into a blur. Speaking or even thinking politically was so far beyond me, I delivered parcels, after all. That was my purpose, to scramble around from place to place without looking up or dealing with the world around me. My loyalties were to myself and no one else. "I am not a political man," I managed to say, feeling panicked and attacked. General Ballard saw this and felt guilted. If I had looked up, I would have known this sooner. Instead, I took my leave.

"I understand," his voice pushed in behind me like a tidal wave, "I only ask that you consider my invitation."

I thought on it during the walk to my quiet, lonely home. I thought on it during my rounds the next day and well into the next week, but the appeal of a new life was not great enough to persuade me. General Ballard's offers grew from constant to occasional, but my disinterest in changing my course was not great enough to prevent him from asking something else of me, something that I found to be terribly absurd. The need to apologize on behalf of the wailing Sylvia led me to his office once more. It had already been decided in the farthest, most humiliating corner of my mind that I would snap this time like a young reed against a torrential breeze. I would make the leap and become a soldier if only to remove the increasing weight of General Ballard's propaganda from my shoulders.

"I love my daughters," he began, much to my irritation, "Cynthia is the intelligent one, Celeste- the beauty, Celine is renowned for her kindness and then… there is my youngest. My little pet who always so truthful, even if her displeasure leads to the suffering of others," he gestured to me with a sympathetic grin before his tangential speech took an unexpected turn, "I am holding a ball this Friday night. Those attending are the finest military men in the colonies, many of whom have sought after my precious daughters to display on their arms like dazzling treasures. All have been accounted for, save for Sylvia. It is no secret that she has taken a shine to you over the years-"

" _Surely, he means Celeste!"_ I thought to myself in dire desperation, _"He cannot mean that infernal, spoiled, noisemaker of a girl."_ Then, curiosity stole away my better judgement. I'd spent years wondering why I had run to and fro all for the sake of those tiny boxes and envelopes that Sylvia slipped into her bodice under nobody's watch but my own. Once or twice, our eyes would meet and her thin, elflike features would shift into a foreboding sneer. She knew that I would never tell. Perhaps after all those years of silence, she would finally be able to indulge me. "It would be an honor, Sir," was my reply. I had nothing to lose, after all.

I stood out like a crow amidst cardinals, not only because I was the only gentleman, aside from the servants, who didn't don a uniform, but I also couldn't dance. The Ballard Girls, every one of them, seemed distant and vain. Despite the "shine" that Sylvia was said to have taken to me, she spent most of her time gazing at her own reflection in the windowed mirrors of the ballroom. General Ballard watched his daughters pridefully from a low-hanging balcony as a gardener might view his flowers. With their identical, golden locks bunned high on their heads and the billowing fabric of their dresses over the panniers on their waists, they looked quite like blossoms with upward-facing stems.

When the General looked away, I would search the ballroom for Celeste and every time, she greeted me with her typical come-hither smile. Halfway through the night, Sylvia strayed from my company for that of a violinist and Celeste stole away into the maze of hallways just outside the ballroom. I took this as my cue to follow. Around every corner, soldiers and women were pairing off. Some had arrived at the ball together, some had only just met while in that dizzying mingle of motion and song.

I expected at any second to see fair Celeste, awaiting my arrival in one of those darkened nooks, but that sight was not mine to see. When I found her, she was pressed against the wall in the arms of a dark-haired man. Her narrow face had twisted into a raw and stunning look that seemed to harbor both agony and pleasure. I meant to shield my eyes, but I remained staring just long enough for Celeste to realize that she was being watched. Her handsome, brown-eyed partner turned my way and laughed mockingly. "You'll have to wait your turn, mate!" He all but yelled, receiving a playful kiss from the woman I so adored. "We will require some fresh drinks, however. If you'd be so kind, _Waiter_!"

Those words were followed by laughter from all sides, a heavy hand jostled my shoulder. "Don't let Banastre cause you any grief," a tall and muscular soldier slurred drunkenly in my face, "he will have had a tumble with over half the women here before the night is through!"

At first I wanted to pry that dreadful Banastre character off of Celeste and beat his pretty face in until it was black and blue. Heaven knows, I was about to when a second voice spoke its part. "Ban makes a fair point. You won't have any luck with the ladies in that get up!"

My eyes combed through the rows of beautiful women and handsome men. First, my chest grew tense and then it grew numb. I started to walk, hardly knowing where my feet had decided upon carrying me to. I merely moved and watched, understanding on some subconscious level that I was about to remove myself from a place of deep misery, thus thrusting myself into uncharted waters. The exact words that I spoke to the General remain locked in my memory in a compartment that I have long since discarded the key to. All I know is that in one moment, I delivered parcels and in the next, I was a soldier.

The chair that I collapsed into in the vacant space beside the orchestra after stating my case to General Ballard had no rhyme or reason. I simply had to sit and hopefully alleviate the shaking in my limbs. In the corner of my eye, however, I found that the seat next to mine was not empty and a pair of familiar doeskin gloves appeared in my periphery.

"Grant me one answer and one answer only, Sylvia," I implored the young lady who had previously ignored and abandoned me. "You see, I am having a very trying evening and I would like to know why you never remove your gloves. Even in the heat of summer, when your sisters turned to lighter wear, you still-"

"That is your question?!" She interrupted, placing her hands at the edge of her knee and straightening her back like a lady of court. "I thought for certain you were about to ask me why I've kept you running amuck with parcels all these years! Unless, of course you truly did believe I was _that_ spoiled!"

I retreated back into my shell and said nothing for a good, long while. But Sylvia did not leave my side and when I finally looked up, I saw the warmest, dearest expression upon her face. "I hate to disappoint you, Miss Ballard, but it would appear I have delivered my final parcel. Tomorrow is my last day in New Jersey. You will have to come up with a new tactic to keep your secrets safe."

Sylvia tugged lightly on the fabric of her gloves in what appeared to be contemplation. "You've enlisted, haven't you?" Her smile widened with my nod. "You're far too sweet to be a soldier. And quiet, too. That's the tragedy of quiet folks, I suppose. You trade speech for observation. All of those years of observing my behavior without any context must have been maddening for you!" With the slightest hop, she rose from her chair and quickly regained her regal stature. "Well, seeing as its very likely that you don't have much longer to live," she ignored my grumble, "I suppose I should be merciful and let you in on a little secret. Come." Her smooth, gloved hand reached for my own and before I could say anything in protest, Sylvia led me away.

 **A/N: It's not like I didn't warn you. With "The Butcher's Daughter" reaching its final narrative arc and all these new ideas bouncing around in my head at the most inconvenient time (finals week), a new fic was almost a given. You should be okay if you're not familiar with my work, but this story does pivot from my rendition of Bordon in "The Butcher's Daughter". He's a rather mysterious character in the film, really, with a lot to work off of and draw inspiration from. So, the possibilities are endless. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts and am looking forward to sharing a new story with you all! X**


	2. The Secret of the Sylph

Until that night, I was only familiar with the exteriors of the grander homesteads of New Jersey. I expected the Ballard Estate to be pristine through and through like a block of pure gold. The ballroom, the parlors, the mahogany furnishings with sparkling trinkets, china and cutlery all existed with the intention to dazzle and distract the guests from viewing what was behind those facades.

I was to receive a lesson in cheated expectations from Miss Ballard, as trite as that sounds. First, I watched her transform from a contrived young woman without so much as a ringlet out of place to joyous and excitable. Perhaps I was giving myself too much credit, but I suspected that this change could be attributed to having a potential friend by her side and this phenomenon was nothing short of witnessing the final stage of a beautiful metamorphosis.

She tugged ferociously at my arm, leading me through the winding passageways and cellars of the mansion. Not a hint of grandeur could be glimpsed in our surroundings. We had fallen from the heavens to the underworld by way of a single flight of stairs.

"Hold these," Sylvia demanded in the spoiled tone of a girl who was used to always having her way. "We'll need to move quickly and quietly so the workers in the kitchen won't hear." With that, she shoved a pair of satiny shoes into my one free hand. I watched the flight of her narrow feet, safely encased in their flowery lace stockings. Surely, she would be troubled to learn the rough floor that we raced across was nothing like the smooth surfaces that she was accustomed to. I felt obligated to speak up, if only to avoid the impending fit when she realized that the silly things had been either soiled or torn- or both.

"You're going to destroy your stockings," I warned. It startled me to hear a lady such as herself snort with such disinterest. "Miss Ballard?!" She shushed me, actually _shushed_ me during our final dash into what I assumed to be an empty pantry. Behind the stone wall, I could hear a constant gurgling of some unknown culinary mechanism. "Why are we here?" I whispered, realizing that the space was too loud to hold a conversation at the hushed volume that we had adopted.

"Watch." Sylvia instructed, kneeling without a hint of remorse for her pale pink gown that was immediately stained with dirt. She appeared to be hunting for a perturbance in the dusty row of floorboards and I quickly understood it was a secret compartment that she sought. "Oh, bother!" she cursed, leaping to her feet with the otherworldly athleticism of a skilled dancer. "I'll never be able to find them with these blasted things on my hands! Would you be so kind, Master Bordon?"

Her palms turned towards the floor as she reached for me. I'd touched the soft leather of her gloves before during our invigorating albeit peculiar flight. Yet, the second that I started to pull, revealing for the first time the naked flesh of her wrists, my face turned as red as wine. I'd never undressed a woman before and had no real idea of where to begin. My best guess was that it would be begin like this- and let me assure you, the unspoken eroticism of this innocent gesture still sets my heart ablaze. That being said, I was taken aback and nearly disappointed upon the realization that there was nothing uncanny about Miss Ballard's hands at all!

"They're ordinary hands," I exclaimed roughly. "Pretty, yes. But I see nothing that would make them worth hiding from the world!"

Sylvia moved her fingertips to the blurry edge of a pool of light. "That is because, unlike Papa, you do not know where to look. Or where to feel." As she guided my touch along the nailbeds of her left hand, I began to realize tiny peculiarities. The first of which was that the nails on her dominant hand were significantly longer than those on her left. When she asked me to apply the slightest bit of pressure to her left-hand fingertips, I realized that the vacancies where the nails might have been were callused and tough. The contrast this made to the rest of her skin caused me to startle. "They are rough, aren't they? Ladies mustn't have rough hands," Sylvia assured me in a shameful tone.

"Only slightly," I shrugged modestly, longing to explain to her that I didn't find her any less beautiful because of these minor imperfections that she was nearly referring to as deformities. There was nothing about Sylvia that called for shame in any form! Secretly, I even found the haughty nature of the Ballard Sisters to be justified by their beauty. "You could always manicure and shorten the other five nails. That would even it out… would it not?"

Sylvia looked offended. "On my bow hand! Never! Those nails must be kept nice and long for when the music requires that I pluck."

I felt foolish. Foolish and intrigued. This explained the openly platonic conversation that she held with the gentlemen in the orchestra. "You are a musician," I observed as she continued her hunt on the floor, "it is perfectly normal for a young lady to have interests! You needn't hide away because of them!" My advice wasn't nearly as important as her search or the contents of the compartment once it was found.

"I'm not merely a musician, Master Bordon," she paused to scowl at me before removing an old violin with scratches and deep indentations in its body and rusted hardware. A piteous old thing, but the sound that it produced was unsurpassed by any of the musicians who General Ballard had commissioned to play in his home. "I am a composer!" She played several, lovely measures of what I would later learn to be an original work before growing frustrated and plopping the violin on the floor with a quick pout. "Let me assure you, I am improving! I am!"

"Improving?" I only laughed. "If you improve any more, Miss Ballard, those gentlemen downstairs will be out of the job for good!"

She produced a quick glare that clearly read, 'don't make fun of me', before returning her attention to the crypt in the floorboards. "I have the most extraordinary of teachers! Teachers that those fools up there would only dream of working alongside. This music-" when I saw that she was struggling to lift a fat book, overstuffed with mismatched pages, I leapt to help her, "this music is from all over the world! If I want to write world-class music, I will require a world-class education, you see! From places undreamt of in the dull collection of harpsichord pieces in the parlor upstairs. This movement-" she unveiled what appeared to be a partially burnt pamphlet with a text that appeared to be English, but with countless unrecognizable accents, "this movement is from Estonia. I have several from Russia, too and even India… and Japan! Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?!"

With her permission, I perused the jagged stacks that had traveled long and far only to become buried treasure. "They're priceless," I assured her with a smile. "how did you ever come to acquire such a collection?"

"I have a friend in New York with similar interests. He also happens to be a draper. You know, an occupational dressmaker? The envelopes were music, the narrow boxes were strings and the square boxes were rosin for my bow."

"If there is anything that you will require while I'm in New York, Miss Ballard, anything at all, you need only ask." Although the heated blush that I had worn was diminishing, it returned as I made this statement. "I was planning on writing you, anyway. Your father would be none the wiser if I added a roll or two of bow hair to my letters."

A smile moved across her round, smooth face like a pleasant breeze and I found myself looking upon her with the same adoration that I had given her sister all those years. It is strange, of course; she was the only Ballard girl I had ever truly disliked but at the same time, she was also the only one of her sisters who prompted me to think and wonder. Perhaps I was getting ahead of myself. Writing to Sylvia and assisting her with this passion of hers could go terribly awry. Wealthy girls have expectations that poor boys can rarely fulfill, after all, especially in regards to material exchanges and there is no denying that Sylvia was materialistic. But as I watched her smile form, I glimpsed something that I hadn't before- humility.

"You owe me nothing, Master Bordon," said she, breaking the silence between us.

I parsed those words and meditated on them for the remainder of the evening. If she truly meant this, that the two of us could converse often and become more than mere acquaintances without the weight of expectations, perhaps there truly was more to Sylvia Ballard than I had thought previously. We returned upstairs, unsuspected, and instead of mingling or dancing, we sat beside the orchestra, draining one flute of champagne after the other. The joy that the music seemed to fill her with was infectious and, like the foolishly impulsive (and somewhat inebriated) young man that I was, I allowed my heart to be snatched away by her pretty, gloved hands.

"Are any of these compositions your own?" I inquired, half-joking, half-terrified that she would take offence to my nerve-riddled stab at humor.

"They don't play from the anonymous stack," she whispered. "My music is for a niche audience, after all."

"And which 'niche' might they be intended for, Miss Ballard?"

Her eyes dropped to her feet as embarrassment hardened her lovely features. "Presently, a vendor who sells at a discount price beneath a bridge in New York."

We both laughed uncomfortably. I already knew that I had an affinity for saying the wrong thing, so it came as no surprise that flirtation wouldn't be my strongest suit. "We all must start somewhere. Even if you never put a name to your music, all of the 'greats' have a signature sound. Yours will surely stand even amidst a sea of anonymous composers."

I meant this. But my words failed to put Sylvia at ease. Her thoughts quickly returned to the question that I had asked her earlier. "Besides," she trilled with forced optimism, "every piece for this ball was hand-picked months ago. But I do have a special talent for sneaking requests to Marcus. He almost wasn't permitted to conduct here last year because of the rowdy tunes that I asked him to play in the past, it was," she covered her mouth daintily to laugh, "it was quite scandalous!"

"Is Marcus familiar with your catalog?" Her glare told me everything that I needed to know. "What about your 'teachers' from Estonia? Russia? Japan?"

Her visage began to glow brighter than any candle in the ballroom as a wicked albeit darling idea dawned on her. "Marcus is familiar with many movements," Sylvia's laughter grew so boisterous that it was nearly impossible to contain, "from France! He keeps some Martini on his person at all times! My, how rebellious that would be! Everything is politics, politics, politics with these men and I am very nearly sick of it, Master Bordon!" She passed me what was her forth flute of the bubbly, intoxicating beverage and pirouetted off to set her "evil" plan in motion with her conductor friend, returning instants later with an outstretched hand. "Papa will never know it was me," she assured me, gesturing again and again for a dance.

"Sylvia? That poor gentleman isn't going to lose work because of you, is he?"

She paused, partially remorseful. But the champagne caused her careless idealism to grow. "Papa will be so pleased to see his youngest enjoying herself with a handsome _soldier_ that it's likely he won't even notice what song is playing! So, Master Bordon, his fate is in your hands!"

With a sigh, I rose to my feet, warned her a second time that I was a humiliatingly poor dancer and proceeded to give her what she desired, anyway. "You are aware that you are rather _bratty_ , are you not?" My teasing frazzled her, but it wasn't long before I was eclipsed by the music and she boldly led on with a rare and beautiful rapture. "I hardly even mind that the piece is French, your choice of song is divine!"

Her body belonged to the music, it surrounded her and held her closer than my arms ever could. But she spared her face and words for me alone as we danced. I could tell that she was pleased with my approval just by basking in the warm glow of her smile. "The feeling never changes, too. I've played this piece so many times and my heart stops and starts itself back up again in the same places. Every single time."

"May I make a request, too? For you to play it for me someday." Her nod meant the world to me. As my ears experienced that miraculous arrangement of notes for the first time, I envisioned her slender, ungloved fingers manipulating the old violin into song. "I shall hold you to that, Miss Ballard."

"Sylvia. Now that you are my friend, I would prefer that you call me Sylvia. And what should I call you?"

"Friend," I replied as I shyly remembered her father's reaction to my laughable name.

"Come now, Master Bordon. That is hardly fair at all! You know, I could always ask around now that you are part of His Majesty's Service."

Feeling rather uncomfortable with both the disclosure of my identity as 'Boris Bordon' and my minimal skill at any sort of dancing, I decided to bring a new name into our conversation. "What is this song called?"

She sighed and, for what I assumed to be the first time in all her eighteen years of having her every whim indulged without question, Sylvia dropped the pursuit of what I was unwilling to give. "Plaisir D'Amour. Martini," she glanced over her shoulder at the players who were managing beautifully despite their unfamiliarity with their new, shared scores. "It was a poem first. Many songs are. 'The pleasure of love lasts only a moment; the grief of love lasts a lifetime,' that is what it translates to. More or less."

The music swelled, and I held her closer than I might have intended. At eighteen, she was sheltered and lonely. I was eight years her senior, life and loss had exposed my gaping soul to the elements and yet, we found common ground in our loneliness. Along with our curiosity for what it would be like to be loved.

"Did you truly mean what you said earlier?" The breath that Sylvia's words produced comforted and warmed the side of my face. "That even after you leave for New York, you and I will-"

"-Master Bordon!" The boom of her father's jovial voice pulled us apart. I raised my hands and made them visible, but the balding man chuckled at my modesty. "Sylvia seems to be behaving for you. Splendid! Thank you for agreeing to dance with her tonight."

I addressed the General with a slight bow before turning my attention to his daughter, who appeared to be just as startled and discomforted by his sudden appearance as I. "It has been an honor, General Ballard. And a pleasure," Sylvia both understood and accepted my look of admiration, "truly, it has."

"It saddens me to cut your evening short," he reached for his daughter's arm and I was very nearly devastated when she allowed her father to pull her out of my grasp, "but a colleague of mine has offered to assist you with your relocation. Among other necessary formalities. He is waiting for you in my office."

Concealing my childish disappointment came as a challenge. But I nodded in agreement and turned to bid Sylvia farewell. How long we were to be separated was a mystery to me, it could be for weeks, it could be for years and if all that we had was this night, I was certain that the impression that I was leaving her with was less-than-memorable. "Before I go, General Ballard and... Miss Ballard, "I bowed awkwardly, "Would you allow an exchange of letters between your daughter and I?"

The round-faced man turned to his child and grinned, "I believe the real question is will Sylvia allow it? If you haven't noticed, she is a rather fastidious young woman."

One alarmingly bashful nod at the floor later and it was arranged. I reached for her hand and gave the cold surface of her glove a gentle kiss goodnight. This gesture felt unusual and would have been more satisfying for us both if her gloves weren't present. But it also served as a promise to hold the secrets that she shared with me that night close and to, as monetary factors allowed, endorse the production of her compositions. "Good evening, Sir," I said to the General before turning and blushing darkly at the first woman I ever courted, "Good evening."

My thoughts and emotions unraveled themselves for observation as I made for the office. I'd arrived at the estate hours prior with every intention of ridding myself of Sylvia's presence as quickly as possible! Not only had she inadvertently rushed in to fill the emptiness that Celeste had left me with, but she had gifted me with a sense of comfort- a calm that I might cling to as I entered this new and potentially terrifying chapter of my life. When my hand found the shiny brass doorknob at the end of the hall, I straightened my back as best I could and briefly meditated on the step that I was making towards a prosperous future. A soldier who is courting a general's daughter! Surely, there was more merit in this title than a parcel boy who slept each night beneath a leaking roof. My thoughts derailed and my confidence shrunk into oblivion when I noticed who was awaiting my arrival behind that weighted door- Banastre Tarleton.

 **A/N: Well, this should be interesting. Especially when Tavington arrives in the picture. Creative liberties abound, I guess. Lol. Speaking of create liberties, it is worth noting that Plaisir D'Amour wasn't actually written until 1784, but it's so breathtakingly gorgeous (especially on strings- ugh!) that I decided to use it in this piece anyway. Sorry, not sorry. Thanks for reading, there's much more on the way!**


	3. The Importance of Being Vigilant

A summon to his office would have been less daunting if I were to meet with General Ballard, himself. I was accustomed to conversing with the General and had a firm understanding of his values and blatant brand of humor. In turn, he could read my few whims and countless reservations as though they were hours on the face of his tabletop clock. My silence never offended him, he gave me ample time to breathe and hunt for words without ever questioning my intelligence or manners. The expectations that I held for this conversation, however, livened my heartrate. Banastre's sudden approach didn't help matters in the slightest. He sauntered forward with an expression so disapproving, one could scarcely differentiate his looking at me from how his features might appear after taking a large bite out of a lemon.

I hadn't noticed just how short and lanky he was until he started to make those wobbly circles around me. Clearly, he was drunk. After orbiting me a third time, the small man stopped, sprung upwards onto the tips of his toes so that our eyes were nearly level. I took issue with his proximity and normally would have backed away, but his glare held me. It is difficult to move when someone is looking at you like they are about to bite your face clean off. He was classically handsome, of course, with the chiseled features of a Grecian bust. The freckles on his nose and alarmingly lengthy eyelashes were an acquired taste. But the eyes of any of the women in the downstairs ballroom, even the eyes of fair Sylvia herself, would be successfully lured by his charms long before resorting to the company of someone like myself.

"Parcels?" Banastre chuckled loudly, his brown eyes mocking me with each revolting glisten. "How embarrassing for you!"

I continued looking forward, out the window and onto the darkened lawn. What few soldiers I had seen in my small town were always still and void of emotion. I tried my best to mimic their stance as he continued his scare tactic of choice. Before speaking a second time, he inhaled deeply, smelling the champagne on my lips. Another wealthy family that I delivered to owned a small brown spaniel who would pester me until I picked him up and he would sniff my face with the same invasive gusto. _The man is a damned puppy_ , I thought, if only to make the tiny tyrant less menacing.

"Have you been drinking this evening, Sir?" Banastre's question was immediately trailed by a mighty belch that very nearly caused the crystal in the General's liquor cupboard to shake. I swallowed my laughter as best I could and decided not to address his hypocrisy. My small intake was wearing off while _this_ gentleman was practically marinated! "The General didn't say anything about you being mute. So, until you say something, I'm just going to assume that you are rude!"

"Are soldiers to surrender drinking upon enlistment?" I asked, watching him sway from side to side in my periphery.

Banastre hiccoughed slightly before combusting into laughter and giving my back an unwelcome slap. "Heavens bless you, dear boy! We're piss drunk half the time and trying to come up with crafty ways to painlessly march whilst bogged down with flasks for the other," he pretended to count the fingers on his left hand, "uh, twenty-nine to… four hours in a day!"

I might have spared the fool a chuckle. Instead, I felt a quick lurch of anger in my gut. This was the fellow with whom Celeste had so hastily jumped on the opportunity to perform unsavory acts in a curtained corner? His fleeting company was of more value to her than years of mutual, unspoken affection with me? Furthermore, and most disappointingly of all, _this_ was the man who I had envied so greatly and briefly that I had toppled over the edge of my plain of comfort and put my name down for an occupation that would more than likely result in an early grave?

"This was a mistake," I said sharply before turning. "If you will excuse me, I have something of a tangle to comb through with General Ballard."

Banastre trailed behind me with all the forlorn eagerness of an unfed pup. "Was there a quill involved? Paper? Ink?" His words had stopped me in my tracks. He attempted to jostle my shoulder, but his reflexes were so muddled from drinking that it was more of a clumsy scrape of his fingertips against my one good coat. "Let me guess, you were expecting a drawn-out process? A ceremony? A fanfare? We are so desperate for bodies to throw into the fields and frontlines that damned colonial, farm-raised, New Jersey-bred _scum_ such as yourself are merely disposable income."

My arms formed a safe, warm buffer across my weakening core. I considered commenting on how the damned womanizing inebriate didn't know how disposable income worked, but I fell into the comforting cradle of silence. There had to be some way that I could return to that joyous state, where I felt proud of my decision instead of terrified. The highly romanticized vision of penning letters to Sylvia about my courageous sacrifice rehearsed itself painstakingly in my mind like a piece of theatre.

"Your arse is ours," Banastre all but reiterated, halting my fantasy. He continued to sway and slur as he delivered his ridiculous 'speech'. Clearly, General Ballard had spoon-fed him some of the words, but his tiny mind rearranged them as he regurgitated them out. "The General tells me that you stick to yourself. Whatever the hell that means. The notion of self has no place where you're headed. You are part of a group effort now. You can learn about this now or later. The sooner you learn, the better off you'll be."

This meant nothing to me. I wanted to go home, gather my bearings and think about the mess that I had landed myself in. Perhaps my mind would wander into fairer territory, to Sylvia. At least I would have something pleasant to contemplate before dying by way of a misfire in training or meeting some other humiliating end. "If you will excuse me," I spoke as politely as anyone could while bearing their teeth in defense, "I have much to think on before tomorrow."

"I'm telling you this as a friend. You won't last long if you don't drink, go out, be one of the boys! Isn't that what you were after in the first place?"

This seemingly trivial exchange would set the tone for my first year of service. But I far too stubborn, far too blind and, above all, too afraid to realize that Banastre actually meant well. He was flat-footed now, standing a good ten inches shorter than I. The courage that I was begging for presented itself as something else and I became someone I didn't want to be. I looked at the man in front of me with pure, undiluted hatred. If I had seen myself, I would have been frightened. My hands balled up into fists, but I did not swing. I merely meditated on how small, how undesirable he had made me feel earlier and I spoke without full consideration of my words, "We are not friends."

The event had reached its close when I stepped out into the hallway. Despite my growing desire to have a final word with the spectacular woman with whom I had shared the evening, I found that walking as far away from the soldiers and the estate as my legs could carry me was the more appealing choice. Besides, what would I say to Sylvia? Either too little or just enough to give away how cowardly I was being.

Outside, the honored guests were being whisked away from the curb in elaborate carriages. Several of my new comrades crossed the lawn, belting off-key tunes with risqué lyrics into the cold, dark sky. Their senior commanders stood close by with glasses of amber brandy, demanding that they lower their voices. All the while, short little Banastre raced behind a giggling, buxom redhead like a satyr chasing a woodnymph. They ducked behind the shrubbery before he realized that I was watching him, quietly admiring how quickly he had recovered from our argument. I looked away swiftly, but not quickly enough as a beam of moonlight exposed the milky white flesh of his conquest's ample breasts. These were the sights and sounds of my new life, it hardly mattered whether I welcomed them in or not.

Riding home should have been liberating. I preferred the silence over the rowdy afterparty on the Ballard's lawn. But silence forces one to look inward. I revisited the conversations that I had that night and grew concerned that Banastre would inform General Ballard of my rudeness. What then if Sylvia received word of my newly tarnished reputation? Would she think differently of me? This painfully unnecessary paranoia pursued me in the quiet night. It wasn't until I arrived home that the tides within my mind began to calm and I found some peace.

The single-room farmhouse that my family had left me with was my solace. Its furnishings were minimal and I had gradually sold off most of its contents and livestock as a means to make ends meet. I saved only what I needed in order to survive and maintain a practical existence, away from the worries and cares of the world. Knowing that I was leaving with an unpremeditated return date made me appreciate my home even more. I laughed at the General's suggestion that I might require assistance with my relocation. I was resourceful enough to live out of a single bag or less if the occasion called for it! I packed some fresh clothes, the means to write to Sylvia and a portion of my savings that was admittedly unsafe to travel with. After this, I reclined and slept dreamlessly for a couple of hours before locking the door and beginning my southward ride.

Trouble on the road was my greatest concern. The dusty highway to New York was partially lit by the scattered glow of vagrant camps. The odds of one or two of them being rebel was a given. Whether or not they knew of the intention of my journey was irrelevant, many of those wanderers would shoot me dead with a smile on their face and a song in their hearts if only to snatch away whatever money I carried on my person. Had I remained with Banastre and the other lads, we would have traveled together, and I wouldn't have had to worry about handling the exhausting encounters with panhandlers alone. It embarrasses me greatly to admit that I paid them off, one by one, and although this led to a peaceful resolve, I was absolutely penniless long before I crossed the Hudson.

These instances had a pattern of worsening in rural stretches of land, far away from the heavily-patrolled outskirts of the larger cities and towns. Perhaps it was natural that I let my guard down as I neared my destination. I clutched my belongings to my heart, urged my horse onto the correct path, hung my head and dozed lightly for what was supposed to only be a minute or two. The awakening that I earned myself was the "thwack" of a narrow wooden panel on the back of my head. This blow was administered just forcefully enough that it sent me flying into the black mane of my mount before sliding off the edge of my saddle.

 _This is it, Boris. Quickly! What did Father tell you about being mugged?_ I tried to think, to weigh my options, but the combination of pain and the ringing in my ears numbed and disoriented my consciousness. _Initiate a fight or give them what they want? Initiate a fight or give them what they want?_ Testosterone and the angered desire to hit back in response got the better of me. I turned and swung without realizing that I was surrounded by an arena of laughter… and without the luxury of vision.

When my eyes adjusted, some seconds later, I saw the perpetrator immediately. It was no pickpocket or thief who had forced me off my horse's back and into the mud but Banastre himself! He looked down at me with the most impish grin imaginable.

"You missed!" He sang, swinging the incriminating stick of lumber over his left shoulder while holding the reins steady in his other hand. "And, oh dear! It would appear you hit the General instead!"

An unpalatable zing of anxiety spread from the base of my throat to the pit of my stomach. General Ballard would never allow one of his own to attack an unsuspecting man, especially if that man was myself, or would he? As I lowered my eyes to the injured man at my feet, I fought to fit together this puzzle. The Genera that l I knew wore his balding, shiny head like a trophy and rarely donned a wig, even at events that called for such attire. This man's head was covered with what had been meticulously powdered curls and a handsome hat that appeared to be unharmed despite the fact that its owner had landed face-first in either mud or horse excrement. The tragic chain of events that I had landed myself in saw to it that it was the latter.

"Sir!" I shouted as the nameless man pulled his slime-covered face from the muck, "Take my hand! I am so terribly sorry!"

Instead of accepting this gesture, he wiped (nay, smudged) his narrow cheeks and broad forehead so that they weren't entirely clean, but green and glistening.

"I'm sure that I have a handkerchief in my saddlebag that the damned vagabonds didn't want," I started to hunt through my sparse collection of lightly stained clothes. "They only took my nicer items, I'm afraid." The younger officers who surrounded us laughed as I removed a holey set of long johns and extended them to their fuming commander.

"Get your damned unmentionables out of my face, boy!" He growled.

I would have apologized, but just then Banastre's voice shot up into an outrageous falsetto. He batted his eyelashes and clasped his hands daintily as he spoke. "Oh, General Howe! I only ask that you accept my unmentionables and my lacy little handkerchiefs as a collective token of my most sincere apology! You see, out in farm country, we customarily toss gentlemen into horse stool as a way of saying we'd like to make feet for children's stockings with them!"

All laughed, even General Howe himself seemed amused. But his joy was short-lived and not intended to be shared with me. "Splendid work, Tarleton! Splendid as usual!" He said without blinking or relieving me of the intimidating glare of his hazel eyes, "You've successfully taught our newest recruit a lesson in vigilance and given me an idea of how poor his accuracy is in hand-to-hand combat. Now, to address his tardiness…"

I tried to close myself off by crossing my arms, but it appeared General Howe was set on correcting my stance as well. He grabbed hold of both of my wrists and wasn't satisfied until they were pressed firmly to my sides. "Respectfully, Sir, it isn't exactly fair to think of me as tardy. I haven't been shown to the barracks, given a uniform or even learned the procedures of reporting-"

"-Or what? Put your name down for special treatment? Because I can assure you," he removed a neatly folded piece of parchment from his coat pocket and stared hard at it with confusion, "… Boris… Bordon? Truly? You have been granted a talent for humiliating yourself without even trying! Very well. Are you familiar with the notion of psychological warfare?" His forehead creased, causing the filth on his face to bunch up in tiny green rivers along his brow. "Your attire is of the upmost importance. Not only to me or your companions, but to His Majesty. Did you know that? You see, _Boris Bordon_ , a properly dressed soldier has the advantage of striking fear into the enemy's heart through his appearance alone. Your uniform is, therefore, a priceless asset."

"I see," I grinned although I hardly saw his point.

"Why is it that you come to me today, dressed like a rutabaga farmer with a saddlebag full of long johns and no uniform whatsoever."

My pulse steadied, if only a fraction. This was one question that I could answer, one portion of this uncomfortable situation that I could wiggle free from. "I wasn't given one, Sir."

General Howe stepped away from me and addressed Banastre with a nod of blatant favoritism. "It was to my understanding that Tarleton took care of these formalities last night. So you wouldn't waste our time and slow us down in the morning. Are you suggesting, then, that he failed to fulfill our wishes?"

I looked to Banastre and then to the General. No matter what answer I gave, I was clearly on the losing end of this argument. So, I settled on the truth. "He did."

Despite the mask of remaining dirt that clung to General Howe's face, anyone within a mile's radius could see that he was turning red with fury. "Astonishing," he spoke in a slow, articulate and terrifying manner, "in less than twenty-four hours, you have managed to insult poor Tarleton by exiting General Ballard's office before he was through briefing you, leave your uniform behind in New York, assault and waste the precious time of your commander and perform the insufferable act of betraying your comrade out of your own selfishness and lack of awareness. Bravo, Boris Bordon. Bravo."

 **A/N: Super-introspective chapter. The next one will be more action-oriented. I'm still fleshing out Bordon's character and getting his voice in my head. Fortunately, Bordon has the voice of a warm chocolate mocha gooey butter cake… and is a rather introverted person in this story. So, these kinds of chapters are a given. More to come, thanks for bearing with! X**


	4. A Self-Fulfilling Prophechy

Three days in and everything hurt. I couldn't move. Some of the men were heavy sleepers and outside forces were required to part them from their cots in the morning. I was a different case, entirely. The painful startle of having chilled water poured from a bucket and strewn across my body should have been enough to remove me. But this ruthless tactic was intended for sleeping men and I hadn't slept a wink since arriving. I remained flat on my back as five bucket's worth of dampness continued to seep into my bedclothes and sheets. If that wasn't uncomfortable enough, the slime of horse spit collected in thick, hideous layers on top of the fibers. The water's origin was from an outside trough and let me assure you, it was disgusting. But compared to everything else that occurred in the barracks, waking up covered with what was once in a horse's mouth was incredibly tame.

"Kill me." I begged in all seriousness to my bunkmate, Charlie Gibbons. "I want to die."

The chore of polishing his buttons was more important to Charlie than my plea. As the shiny boots on his feet swung side to side over the edge of the bunk, the thought of tugging violently at his leg and stealing his attention away crossed my mind. But I should remind you- I couldn't move. Occasional warnings about tardiness echoed through the stale-smelling wooden structure that I now called home. It wasn't so much that the men were looking out for my interests and was instead prompted by the growing concern that they would have to take the heat for not getting me out of bed on time.

I called for Charlie again. "If you aren't going to do it, I will. Just toss me a pistol and… out, out brief candle!" Again, any trace remorse for my impending "suicide" was eclipsed by a glistening brass button. Even my quick stab at Shakespeare, whose work Charlie was notably fond of, went unnoticed.

It had been foolish to think that living with others might be like having a family again. There was kinship between the men and yet, everyone was clearly looking out for their own interests- despite Banastre's half-witted testament to unity. The deeply strained muscles in my back, calves and forearms pulsated like tiny drums of pain. Each overwhelming beat took me further away from any desire to sit upright and gain back some control of myself and closer to crying out for help. It would have been easier to go through this on my property in New Jersey. At the very least, the isolated location of my home would serve as a valid excuse for my cries going unanswered.

I had never lived in a place so crowded and yet, I had never felt so alone. It wasn't the fact that I had marched over rough and cobbled alleyways until my feet looked like raw pieces of meat, it wasn't the strain in my arms from learning how to properly carry, load and shoot heavy firearms nor was it the fatigue from going days without giving my mind a moment's rest that caused a familiar scorching strangulation in my airways. It was my loneliness that was about to push me over the edge. This could only mean one thing- I was about to cry in front of everyone!

A sob, as faint and quiet as a droplet in a misty sheet of rain, passed through my lips. I could lay there all day and complain about my aches and pains at the top of my lungs and render not a single reaction from those around me. But the sight of my tears was noticed immediately and treated like a toxin. I could see Banastre craning his neck from several bunks over and expected that he would tease me, but he didn't. He hurdled towards me, threw his hands on my shoulders and proceeded to give the other boys a show and myself, a terrible first demonstration of his strength.

It wasn't until the first time that I rode into battle with Banastre that I realized how exemplary of a soldier he was. Nor was it until he dragged me, soaking long johns and all, from the barracks, down the dusty pathway and headfirst into the ice-laden trough by the stables that I understood his strength and ruthlessness. He was much smaller than me and everyone flocked in to fully enjoy the spectacle. True, humiliation was becoming a trademark of mine, but it was not my first response as my back hit the bottom of the deep, stone vessel. I had been granted my wish, that self-fulfilling prophecy and for a good minute and a half, I remained fully submerged. The water settled and the thin assembly of ice that I had fractured when I fell through clustered together and blocked out the light. The space, the silence, the sloping sides of the trough that cradled me like a coffin granted me the solemn serenity that I had craved- but was not yet ready to experience.

Most of the pain had been numbed by the cold waters. All other aches were bone-deep. They begged me to ignore my primitive resistance to drowning. But a sound- or rather, a memory of a sound took precedence over that internalized battle. The soft, agonizing string of notes that boisterous little Sylvia had written and played for me on her violin sounded identical to drowning. I thought of her alone in her dark estate, hidden away on a shelf by her father in the same protective way as she had concealed her love for song. How might she or her music change if she learned that her only friend in all the world had abandoned her to be a soldier only to drown in an unwinterized trough? More tragically, how could I allow this to come to pass when I wanted nothing more than to free her from those chains and provide for her a happy home where her talent would be celebrated and endorsed? With this thought in mind, I called upon every ounce of strength that I still had within me, felt the harrowing pain and exhaustion fragment and fall away like pressurized ice and rose to the surface a new man.

None of the others had any interest in my miraculous recovery. For all they cared, I would have stayed at the bottom until the Spring or until one of them was called to investigate why the horses were refusing their water. Even Banastre had vanished before he was able to witness my little "walk of shame", but he did get a fair laugh when I stepped back inside, a damp and shivering mess, and thus prepared myself for the day without a word.

"Morton!" Charlie hissed from the top bunk as I plowed through my trunk for my dry, warm uniform. "What the hell are you doing?"

I groaned and retreated into a private corner to change. My coat had arrived from New Jersey only yesterday and it would be incredibly refreshing to finally report in the morning in the proper attire instead of getting all kinds of hell from my officers and having to explain to them why I was so underdressed.

"What does it look like I'm doing?!" I very nearly whispered, not wanting to add fuel to the fire. I considered telling him for the umpteenth time that 'Morton' was not my name, but my rashness back at the Ballard Estate with Banastre humbled me. Who knows? What if Charlie was trying to warn me that I was neglecting the dress code? I'd seen men drilled for so much as a buckle that was slightly askew. Instead of offering help, Charlie snidely pointed out that I was sopping wet before retuning to his buttons. "Thank you for your astute observation, Gibbons. I suppose that is a bridge that I shall have to cross with General Howe when he arrives."

Banastre must have been listening from the outside because he popped his brown, curly head into the space moments later. He leaned his back against the doorframe in a manner so informal, nobody would have suspected what he was about to say. "General Howe has business in Boston today, Gentlemen. Which means that not only I will be performing your inspection," everyone in the long row of bunks stuck their heads around the corner to listen. Their sluggishness must have irritated Banastre because he abandoned his thought, launched himself from the doorway and commanded their attention by reiterating the word, "Inspection," with a frightening shout.

All assembled and he worked forward from the back of the room. Usually, General Howe started at the drafty bunks near the entryway where Charlie and I were situated. Was Banastre was being merciful by waiting to address me last? Doubtful. Still, I listened to his commentary and tried to correct my appearance accordingly.

"It is to my understanding that you men are being granted a shining opportunity," said Banastre as he nonchalantly passed from one soldier to the other. "But every silver lining has a cloud, don't you think?" Charlie, the one fellow in the bunch who was truly a literary man let out a quick chuckle. Banastre's sternness melted away and he gave a quick bow. _Perhaps I could use his lust for praise to my advantage._ That was the only thought on my mind. But as he continued everyone, myself included, grew concerned with what was being said. "As it stands right now, you are not ready for combat. You are piss poor shots and can't follow orders to save your lives. Thankfully, you will be under my nurturing watch over the coming week. I put in a good word for you with General Howe and he has generously agreed to grant you next weekend to get your affairs in order before you are marched East and into hostile territory." His footsteps grew louder and before I knew it, I saw the tips of his tiny fingers as he waved them in my face. "Yoohoo! Morton! This involves you, too! Actually," he took several steps backwards and scanned me over, "I'd like to use our dear friend Morris Morton as an example. Instead of polishing his buttons for inspection this morning, he took a nap _and_ had a swim! Now, he is going to miss preparatory training that would otherwise save his miserable life because he has been ordered to polish floorboards instead! Do you know the circumference of a button, Morton?"

I might have found my strength earlier, but my voice was still missing. "No, Sir." I managed to mumble.

Banastre assumed his usual position on the tips of his toes, flung his skinny arm around my shoulder and spoke slowly, as if he were speaking to someone who was either very young or very old, "Well… to begin… a button… is smaller than a floorboard!" As the other boys feigned the laughter that Banastre so clearly craved, he clapped his hands like a joyous child. "Now you know for next time!" He beamed, wiping several happy tears that had fallen from his large, brown eyes.

I drew in a deep breath of air and endured the overflow of instructions that he gave me on how to undergo my new task. It was a fairly straightforward process that involved the complete removal of every trunk and every bed from the barracks. At least, in Banastre's rendition. Fortunately for me, a passing officer stopped me halfway through the evacuation of these items and ensured me that I need only polish the floors. My arms and back didn't thank me. Still, this task gave me time to come up with what I might tell Sylvia in my first letter to her. The floorboards beneath my fingers brought back the memory of those few, precious moments that we had shared in her home's kitchen. By sundown I had written the perfect letter for her in my mind and was eager to put it to paper, but not before paying a quick visit to the music shop.

Although my humble ration of a first earning was intended for food, I had set some money aside for the rosin and strings. I even purchased extras in advance, just in case finding a music shop during my first march to battle proved fruitless. The owner was no draper and therefore, was not likely to know who Sylvia Ballard was. My desire to speak with her again would not be fulfilled for a while, but perhaps talking directly with someone who knew her enough to sneak the tools of her craft in her dress and hat boxes since childhood would give me a fraction of the comfort that I was longing for. As I was making for the door, I felt inspired to ask the old man who knew so much about the maintenance and anatomy of the violin, if he was familiar with any drapers who also sold such items.

"You shouldn't ask a shopkeep to direct you to their competition, young man," he replied, restocking the selection of strings with his veiny, spiderlike fingers. I was about to give up and head out into the street when he cleared his throat, "Lars closes shop earlier than I do. But his cousin is a less-fortunate chap. A vendor. He sells unpopular music beneath the Seventh Street Bridge. He will be able provide you with whatever answers you seek. My face lit up. This vendor, whoever he was, sounded almost exactly like the man who sold Sylvia's music!

I roamed around, counting down the street signs until I finally found a middle-aged, redheaded man in tattered clothes standing behind a cart. He appeared to be a salesman of newspapers, secondhand books and, as promised, a stack of music that was nearly untouched in comparison to the rest of his wares.

"I am in search of a composition!" I boldly stated once I caught sight of the man's slender face. As I neared him, I noticed that he had unusual eyes, one brown and one blue with thick cataracts over each pupil. Though he followed the sound of my voice, they never seemed to align with my own.

"A composition, you say?" He bobbed his head and grinned, dragging his hands across the "countertop" of his cart and towards the fat pile of parchment. "You'll need to be more specific. I have over 500 different titles in stock." At the very least, the blind man was unable to see the disappointment in my face. But he seemed to sense it. "Local composer?"

My eyes dropped to the gloves on his trembling hands, yet another image that inadvertently reminded me of her. "No, Sir," said I, "an anonymous composer of New Jersey."

He grinned sourly, exposing the blackness of his teeth. "You don't mean… The Sylph? The Airy Spirit? We have been out of _its_ music for weeks! If it were to drop a new title tomorrow morning and you slept beside my cart all night, you'd still have to scramble to receive a copy!"

Though I truly was disappointed to hear this, my heart swelled with pride. What few miraculous measures of music that she had performed for me were worthy of being played before all the angels in heaven. Still, to know that I was courting this mysterious _Sylph_ , this _Airy Spirit_ who was actively touching the lives and hearts of so many people, elevated me high above the petty drama that I was going through with Banastre. "Thank you, anyway, kind sir," I said with a smile that I knew the man would not receive.

He held his forefinger in the air, begging me to remain still for just a minute longer. His fluffy red head ducked behind the counter and he emerged not a second later with an elderly fiddle that could have been the sibling of the one Sylvia kept stowed beneath the ground. He produced a bow next and as he placed it upon the strings, the same mournful melody that she had shared with me filled the vacant alleyway. The song started with a simple and sweet combination of sounds, but gradually packed on layers of complexity. Within each phrase, I heard the recognizable dips and dives of an aching human heart. I returned that night, prepared to share my fears with her and confident that she would understand the peril that my soul was in. So, I wrote:

 _Dearest Sylvia,_

 _The written word seats itself more elegantly on my tongue than the noise of speech. Yet, even now with miles of land between us, I find myself struggling with how to arrange these words for you. After only one week of training, I have been strategically placed as a pawn amongst pawns. A brick in a large and sacrificial wall. In my fantasies, I would write home to you, boasting of my courage. Instead, I am admitting to loneliness and fear._

 _I am to return to New Jersey next weekend. My visit will be brief and followed immediately by my first encounter with combat. You are not required to see me. You are not required to do anything. To use your words exactly, Sylvia, you owe me nothing. It would be easier to stay here in New York and await whatever terrors are about to unfold. But leaving for battle with the knowledge that I was honest with you and allowed you to see the contents of my soul would very nearly be the equivalent of a long and happy life._

 _Enclosed you will find your rosin and strings. I spoke with your vendor about our situation and he has agreed to provide you with anything that you might need if worse comes to worse. Should this letter be our final contact, please know that it is my fondest hope for you to never abandon your music. Courage is a complex idea. While I cling to silence and secrecy, you lay your soul bare for the world to see. You take pain and make it beautiful. While even the bravest of warriors are inherently limited to taking their pain and inflicting it on others._

 _I will call on you next Saturday. Until then, I will continue to marvel at your courage and adore you from afar as I always have and always will._

 _Yours,_

 _Boris Bordon_


	5. The Lesson

During the cold New Jersey winters, in the seclusion of my own home, I would drink. The warming and dizzying trance of the alcohol would give me a comfort that could not be rivaled by my tiny fireplace and single, scratchy blanket. Spring had been delayed the year of my enlistment and I had some desire to drink in the barracks. But of course, the shine of my flask attracted Banastre like a moth to the flame and he quickly confiscated it. Why I ever thought that I would get away with relaxing in that crowded, stuffy room is still beyond me.

I soon located the tavern that the boys would file into at the end of each challenging day. My palette, if I can even call it that, was used to something paler and more watered down than the rich, brown ale that overflowed on tap in that rowdy haunt. Because the drink was so strong and new to me, it only took two mugs to gain the desired effect. I learned to anticipate that friendly stream of inebriation that charged into my bloodstream like an impenetrable line of cavalry to numb my every ailment. Knowing what awaited me at The Iron Horse made the pain worthwhile. The staff acknowledged me and treated me very kindly. What's more is I would always find a new drink on the table, eagerly awaiting me, even before I even managed to finish off my last one.

When Sylvia's reply arrived in the post on Monday morning, I tucked it away in my pocket. There it remained unopened until the evening when I had my third mug of ale in hand. The stationary that she used was a far cry from the scrap of parchment that I had scribbled my latest confession upon. The smooth, starched paper of her letter was folded thrice over and kept intact with a pale blue ribbon and a seal that bore the indention of a swan's silhouette. Inside, I found what few words she had spared me, written in spiraling cursive penmanship so ethereal, I nearly expected it to float from the page like wisps of smoke.

 _To my courageous Friend,_

 _I received your note and must admit, my admiration for you has only grown after experiencing such straightforwardness. That is why it pains me to contradict what you have stated. Your sweetness and soft-spoken eloquence always shine through regardless of situation and setting. No doubt, each glimpse of your tenderness has led my heart astray and directly into your hand._

 _I know very little of war, but more than you might expect. As the daughter of a General, I fear for my father without end. Now, I am to fear for you. Fear is an inevitable foe, but it is also a companion, a compass that will take your hand and tell you when to run. In looking out for you, your fears are a friend to me._

 _Never doubt that you are brave when you choose to live another day. For the girl you leave behind in New Jersey, another day- another clumsy dance, another secret shared- is all that I pray for. I cannot thank you enough for the support and contributions that you given to me and my music. A small token of my gratitude can be glimpsed this Wednesday evening at seven in the window of Lars' Draper Shoppe. Should you miss it, do not dismay. I will await your arrival on Sunday with great anticipation._

 _Most affectionately your own,_

 _Sylvia Angelica Ballard_

I'll admit, several passages made me blush. The rest baffled me. I read it over again and again, sifting through her message for its more affectionate phrases and words. The mystery of whatever awaited me at the draper shop was very appealing and the two days' worth of rigorous training that I would have to endure before Wednesday evening passed by sluggishly. My mind would rattle around from one possibility to the next. Some were plausible, some were absurd. Given what I knew of Sylvia and the camaraderie that she shared with her draper and the vendor, I eventually decided that she had released a new piece of music and that someone would be performing it at the given location. But why in the window, I wondered? Why not in the street where others might experience the simplicities and complexities, the pleasures and pains of her advanced musicianship? As Banastre gave an intricate lecture on the intimidating and thoroughly British tactic of marching over our fallen brethren without breaking formation or being affected by their deaths in any way, my thoughts remained locked on Sylvia. Banastre could tell that I was not present and requested that I lay on the ground so that the other men might practice stepping over me!

"A realistic scenario, too!" He announced in yet, another effort to deter my courage. "If anyone would like to place bets this evening for how long the poor oaf will last in battle, I'll be at the Iron Horse until the wee hours of tomorrow morning! Of course, it shan't take long at all to decide his fate! What do you think boys? Ten, twenty seconds tops? Five seconds? Oh, now I'm just splitting hairs!"

Surely, Banastre wanted me to be present to witness such ridicule, but I had not planned a visit to the tavern that night. I remained voiceless as the thunder of boots passed over top of me again and again, unraveling my hair and dragging the borderline of my coat into the dusty street. By the time this terrible drill came to an end, I looked as though I had been run over repeatedly by a cart. But it hardly mattered, seven o'clock was drawing near and I had a draper shop to visit. Despite the relentless series of misfortunes that training was turning out to be, I couldn't help but find joy in how fit I was becoming. Delivering parcels from a young age made me a sturdy lad, but there were many muscles in my body that were dormant until only recently. Now, I could tackle New York's sloping terrain and winding streets in a sprint without experiencing any exhaustion.

My newfound agility made it so I arrived at Lars' Draper Shoppe several minutes before the seven o'clock hour and I lightly perused the area during my wait. All the buildings on that street were handsome and well-kept with dark bricks and, to my surprise, a shortage of windows. The name of each shop was proudly hung above their respective doors, rendering the street especially easy to navigate. That being said, the draper who the Ballard Girls had played patron to for over a decade was anything but ostentatious about his creations. There wasn't so much as a hat pin on display in his window! A candlelit table and a counter appeared to be the only spectacle that Lars allowed the world to see. The only indication that the location birthed ladies fashion items was the appearance of a watchful mannequin in the corner of the front room, but like everything else on the immaculate street, the mannequin was barren, albeit properly dusted.

A simple glance at my reflection told me that I was out of place. My coat bore multiple traces of dirt from the street, my hair had completely unraveled itself and its lengths jutted out in all directions. I dusted my shoulders and pulled my stubborn brown waves back with one of the lackluster ribbons that I typically used to tie off the very end my queue. It was almost too short to sufficiently wrap around the base of my hair, leaving me with a multitude of unruly pieces above my ears. I looked silly, but better than I had upon arrival. The faintest motion from inside the building drew my attention away from my reflection. Suddenly, as if to starkly contrast my hopeless appearance, the loveliest woman to ever draw breath stepped in from out of the abyss and made towards the door.

Her satiny dress, decked with brilliant layers of burgundy and peach shimmered in the candlelight. As she paused halfway through, Sylvia sensed that she was being watched. My heart pattered weightlessly, my palms began to sweat. True, I had silently hoped that she would be there, but I was in no condition to receive her. It was fight or flight and I had just barely settled on making a run for it when she captured me with her gaze. She looked me over with her round, green eyes and I braced myself for her laughter- but it never came. Her stare warmed immediately, the very instant that she realized it was me. Perhaps it was through the safety of separation, the glass that played mediator between us- perhaps she was merely enamored by seeing me disheveled and in uniform and in turn, I was enamored by the soft glow that the candle emitted upon her delicate physique; but this was the first of many times that we looked upon one another with genuine longing. One deeply indulgent infinity of a second later, she made for the door and right as it opened, my feelings for her multiplied.

"I've missed you," I quickly admitted with a blush and a deep bow. As I looked her over, I realized that the gloves she used to conceal her deepest secret with were gone. Instinctively, embarrassingly, I raced to the doorway, reached out to touch her slender fingertips and when she accepted this gesture, I lifted her hand to my lips for an elongated, tender kiss. The hand that I had selected, her "bow hand", continued to balance on my own and I read this as an indication of her building trust in me. "Your gloves have vanished," I observed, "that must mean that we are alone." She retreated almost an entire inch and I could feel all the blood in my body rushing to my head, causing me to turn red in embarrassment for the second time in one minute. "Forgive me, Sylvia. I misspoke."

"Lars is inside." She maintained a light grasp on my hand, providing me with more assurance than she would ever know. "And his wife, Agnes. When Papa takes my sisters and I to New York, he hands us off to our Auntie. She drops us here, occasionally. I was being fitted for this gown today," the usual smile returned to her face as she gave the billowing fabric a quick 'swish'. "It's for Sunday. Papa was hoping to have you over for tea. Do you approve?"

I managed an uncomfortable nod. Given the priceless craftsmanship and countless embellishments of the dress, I assumed that it cost over half of what my house was worth. What's worse is that I was correct! "You look ravishing, truly. But the greatest part of your surprise is simply being able to see _you_ again, dearest Sylvia!"

The backwards and forwards swishing motion that she had been making with the gown came to a sudden halt. She raised her hand, burying her radiant smile beneath it with an air of forced propriety. "The gown isn't your surprise, Master Bordon! Heavens! You care not a button for superfluous things like _fashion_! That is one of the many reasons why I am so taken with you!" She reached out and touched my forearm, openly undisturbed by the dirt that still clung to my sleeve. "Come. I have something of greater importance waiting for you inside."

Sylvia was a beautiful mystery to me from the start. She understood how eagerly my overactive mind took to puzzles. Thus, she always strived to keep me guessing until the clues that she left for me led to sweet and meaningful rewards. We paused to greet the balding draper called 'Lars' on our way to the attic. He didn't try to stop Sylvia. The only real concern that he showed was for the wellbeing of her gown.

"Don't let it drag!" Lars reminded her as he trailed, sluggishly behind us.

The second that I stepped foot in the attic, I realized why Lars had minimal reservations about allowing Sylvia to wear her priceless gown in the space. The small room was fully-furnished without so much as a cobweb or a sprinkling of dust. Both Sylvia and Lars struck matches and began lighting the beautiful variety of candelabras that had been evenly spaced to give a perfect distribution of light. Even if it was on accident, they seemed to synchronize with one another, making the lighting of the candles a nearly ceremonial spectacle to behold. When the room was bright enough to fully take in, I understood why it was so sacred to Sylvia and Lars. It was a residency, nay- a sanctuary for stringed instruments. Every member of the violin family was there, hanging like works of art or lovingly displayed in every nook. Sylvia moved from one option to the next before selecting a stunning pairing, so precious they had to be kept under glass.

Lars nudged my shoulder, as I looked on, "The lady has expensive taste," he teased, "have you told your friend about my 'you break it, you buy it' policy, Miss Ballard?"

Sylvia smiled coyly before passing one of the instruments to me. I wanted to refuse, knowing far well that I would end up dotting its beautiful, amber finish with my fingerprints- or worse. But the sweet, encouraging look on her face prompted me to give her what she desired. She presented me with a bow next and warned me against touching the thick vein of horsehair that was threaded adjacently to its wooden handle. It was a silly response, of course, to panic. But I was the proverbial bull in a china shop. I knew that I was bound to do something wrong.

"Why have you brought me here?" I asked in a sweat.

She didn't answer and merely began her demonstration on where to position the gorgeous instrument between my shoulder and chin.

"To make you the envy of the Western World, my friend," Lars said bitterly, as he plopped down in a nearby armchair and began tuning a cello. He was to be our self-appointed chaperone for the evening and honestly, this didn't help my anxiety. "Not even I have acquired a music lesson from _The Sylph_ and I'm her damned sponsor!"

The touch of her hand leading mine leveled out my heartrate. "You don't have to put too much pressure on the pad. Just enough to hold it in place, your grip on the neck will do the rest. Perfect. As for the bow-" she followed the same procedure, explaining the anatomy of the bow in painstaking detail. I chuckled slightly when she told me that my thumb and middle finger were positioned too tightly around the 'frog'. I even gave a small "ribbit", but she was too busy with her demonstration to notice. "My tutor used to tell me on repeat that feeling like you are about to drop the bow is actually a good sign. Bows are very finicky. They like to be balanced and have a tendency to jump out of your hand if you grip them too tightly!"

"Like a frog?" I joked. This time, she chuckled. I would have felt accomplished, but the bow decided to leap out of my hand and onto the floor, even though it had been balanced just right. The sound of Lars gasping from across the room very nearly killed me. "Oh, no!"

Sylvia bent over and removed it from the floor before I could. "Perhaps I should teach you the notes first! Have you ever played an instrument before?"

I looked away, terribly embarrassed. "My mother forced me to sing in choir as a boy." For reasons that were completely beyond my knowledge, Lars was immediately intrigued.

"I knew you had to be a singer with a voice like that" the line of his heavily mustached mouth formed into a pleasant smile. "Or an actor! You know, I don't only design women's fashion, I make costumes for several local facilities and would gladly-"

"-Lars," Sylvia interrupted, "Master Bordon is far too gentlemanly to mingle with thespians! All those scoundrels ever do is bicker and drink!" I looked down at my boots. Perhaps she didn't know as much about soldiers as she had claimed to. "He does have a lovely voice. It's a pity that it is so often masked with silence." I severed my eyes from the floor just long enough to realize that Sylvia was blushing as terribly as I was. She grazed my forearm with her fingertips, stating with great affection, "He's a cello." We both turned so red that my coat grew jealous.

"If I'm a cello," I said, fighting against my nerves as though they were breakers on the ocean, "then you are a pickle!" Silence. She was flirting with me, actually flirting! And, of course, I had to go and say something wrong!

Lars cleared his throat in either offence or confusion, "Did you just call Miss Ballard a pickle!?"

"You know…" I struggled, "a pickle! Because her voice is… high and lilting?"

Lars seemed to realize what I was getting at, but Sylvia remained tragically lost. "I think he means a piccolo. The high-pitched baby sister of the woodwind family. He's on to something, too, Sylvia can be a bit shrill at times!"

After several deeply painful seconds, she covered her mouth, turned away and broke out into a fit of laughter. Once she recovered, however, she moved her hand back to where it had been previously, and her eyes flooded over with the same gentleness and endearment that they had held before.

"You don't know how to read music, then?" She smiled warmly after I shook my head and continued her lesson as though the 'pickle' incident never happened at all. "That's perfectly fine! There are certain exceptions that I will cover in later lessons. But for now, you need only worry about the notes, A, B, C, D, E, F, and G. The four open strings on your violin from lowest to highest G-D-A-E and I'm going to teach you three points on each string that you manipulate to move up and down the scale. We're just going to worry about your pointer finger and ring finger right now. The other ones will come in later when I teach you accidentals. Going from lowest to highest, you play the G string open, press down on the first point to play an A, the second point to play a B, and the third point to play a C. You can press down a forth time if you'd like, but that note is the same as the next string over, which in this case is the D string. Does that make sense?"

I nodded, somewhat confident. "You just work up and down the alphabet from A to G? And what are the names of the… open strings again?"

"G, D, A and E. It gets easier, I promise! You only truly start to grasp it once you start practicing your scales. I'll teach you some of the more basic ones and then I'll show you how to play a song in C major! It has one accidental in it, but I can already tell that you will do brilliantly."

I plucked the notes for the first half an hour or so and grew so accustomed to the patterns that Sylvia was teaching me that I decided to incorporate the bow before long. I dropped it several times before finally relaxing into the technique that she sought and she didn't stop cheering me on, especially when I grew frustrated and considered giving up. Having someone there who she could teach brought something to the surface that I hadn't glimpsed before and her passion for music seemed to be the driving force of this mysterious nuance.

"We can stop anytime," she said upon sensing my fatigue. But I was hardly ready to give up and she could tell. "Unless of course, you'd like to learn the song that I selected for you! It really is quite simple: C-F-G-A-A-A#-A#-A-G-A-G-C-D-E-F-G-A-D-G-A#-A-G-F." She played the sequence, singing each note along with her violin. The tune was more than recognizable, it had been locked in my heart like a precious jewel since the night that our courtship began. Martini's _Plaisir d'amour_. Our first dance.

 **A/N: If you play violin and were facepalming at the end of this chapter, please know that I haven't picked mine up in forever and was working from memory while writing Sylvia's "lesson". Also, I plucked "Plaisir" out on my piano by ear and that was where I got the notes from. All grace notes and related embellishments are missing because I was trying for the simplest version of the song imaginable. I don't own it. It's 200+ years old, but it is going to end up being something of a motif in this story. Thanks for reading! X**


	6. Tea Time!

On Friday night, I returned to New Jersey with haste. Many of the men lived in nearby territories and the road home seemed less treacherous while trailing behind the groups. I was looking forward to sleeping, eating and washing in my own space without feeling crowded or rushed. Although admittedly, I knew that the pang of anxiety brought about by my approaching appointment with General Ballard would haunt me for most of my weekend home. The road from courtship to marriage (or termination) is relatively brief and although Sylvia and I would surely desire more time to write and speak, I would have to make my intentions clear from the start. In other words, I knew that General Ballard would want to know if I intended on marrying his daughter in the future and readying myself for this conversation was, in many ways, more exhausting than Banastre's cruel means of preparing me for Boston. We came from different worlds, Sylvia and I. The General's fondness of me seemed to dangle by a thin thread and it would take a single miscalculated word or action from my side to cause that thread to snap.

I was more than relieved to find my home in the condition that I had left it. I threw off my boots, warmed myself by the fire and polished off the biscuits that I had brought along for my travels. A pitiful rationing of food, to be sure, but it was just enough to give me strength for my trip to the market the following morning. In the silent, secret corridors of my mind, I wondered how Sylvia would look in my home. I imagined her seated beside the hearth, violin in hand as she feverishly penned the notes of her latest composition. I reached into the satchel that I had brought from New York and removed my most recent purchases, fresh strings, rosin and a handsome book of staff paper that I had planned on presenting her with the next time that we were alone together. Such an occasion was not likely to occur this weekend, but I remained hopeful. And thought myself a wicked man for holding such hopes...

My walk to the market on Saturday made me feel as though New York was nothing more than an elongated nightmare. I had missed the serenity of my rural home and quickly readjusted to its many charms. The warming of the air and the rare appearance of sunlight allowed me to remain outdoors for most of the day. I decided beforehand that I would be in full uniform on Sunday and had even prepared myself emotionally for the task of shaving and tying my notoriously ill-tempered hair back accordingly. So, Saturday would be the first and the last day in a long stretch of time that I could wear clothing that wasn't restrictive, return my heavily blistered feet to the comforts of my favorite, muddy boots and just be quiet, humble Boris again for a while. And that is exactly what I did! I purchased some non-perishables and a small variety of fruits and vegetables, just to add some freshness to the "dish" that I planned on making that evening. Porridge, biscuits and tea were staples in the barracks and as much as I tried to break away from them for a while, I had grown so accustomed to receiving nourishment from them that they were all I craved.

As I was heading back, slightly disappointed in my not-so-adventurous selection of food, I saw that several neighboring properties had joined forces to sell off unwanted furnishings to people who were passing to and from market. I glazed over most of the items. My home was either too small, or I was simply too boring, to desire silly things like matching tea tables or rocking chairs. I will admit, however, I paused to smile at the lovely little bassinet that one of the seller's infants had outgrown. With the very real possibility of our courtship leading to a proposal and that proposal leading to marriage, the hope of eventually starting a family with Sylvia glistened on the horizon like a distant star. But it was too far off and I was getting ahead of myself. Embarrassed by my cloying speculation, I moved as far away from the bassinet as I possibly could and was making to head back to the path when something a bit more realistic came into view. I bought the shiny, brass music stand without hesitation. Surely, Sylvia would not visit my home for a long while and I would have no reason to be embarrassed by it. Besides, she had inspired me to pursue music, if only as a hobby. For that reason alone, my purchase would prove useful.

At least, that was what I told myself until I placed the music stand by the fireside. The staff paper and the rest of my gifts for Sylvia fit extraordinarily well on the stand. There the items remained, watching me and setting my imagination ablaze as I worked in the kitchen. Her presence, accompanied by the sound of her sweet music would breathe such life into my home. I would provide for her, just like her father had and she would live without a worry or a care. All that I would ask of my Sylvia would be that she fulfill the purpose that God had given her from birth, to fill the world with song. These musings brought me comfort until Sunday morning when panic took over. I spent more time dressing and grooming myself than I had for the ball, itself. Not a single hair on my head would be out of place, not a button or a buckle ajar. Why, even Banastre himself would have approved of my appearance! But fulfillment on a strictly superficial scale would only get me so far. I had to keep my wits about me, my nerves and thoughts, in check. The hopeless dream that I might forever have beautiful Sylvia by my side, to teach me and tease me and care for me in a way that no woman had ever done before, counted on it.

You probably have guessed by now that by the time I arrived at the Ballard Estate, I was a sweaty, shaky, jumpy little ball of nerves. You would be correct in assuming as much. The friendly, elderly maid who must have answered the door for me a thousand times over greeted me and saw my distress immediately.

"Well, well, well," her skinny forehead creased beneath its crown of braids, her wrinkled cheeks grew chubby and taut as looked me over and smiled, "our parcel boy-turned soldier! You've been the talk of the household for weeks, young man! Weeks!" I couldn't tell if she was being honest or merely trying to make me feel better. "It's such a beautiful day today," she ushered me inside and led me through the impossibly gorgeous interior of the building, "the world has finally decided to warm up after a cold and brutal winter! General Ballard will be taking his tea in the atrium today. Pretty little room. It overlooks the badminton court. Don't be surprised if he or Miss Ballard asks you to play before the afternoon is through! It's all they do all Summer!" Her rambling continued. I took it merely as a break from her lonely life and that she was relived to finally have someone to listen. Plus, it felt nice to have someone _else_ doing all the talking! "Miss Ballard will be down before long," she informed me, before opening the windowed door that I could see the General seated behind. Then, the dear old woman did something unexpected, but not entirely unwelcome. She grabbed hold of my shoulders and drew me in for a suffocating hug! "I've all but raised that girl since her Mama passed," she whispered, quickly, not pausing once to breathe, "I know all of her secrets. The small ones, like her affection for you. And the not-so-small ones, like what she keeps hidden in the cellar. I've seen this process again and again. Her Papa trying to auction his girls off to the highest bidder. Not out of cruelty, no. In his world, everything can be bought. Even love. That is why he showers his daughters with gifts." The maid backed away slightly, licking her parched, wrinkle-lined lips. "Sylvia told me of your despair. How you fear that you will die in battle. That fear is perfectly normal, but don't… don't let it show. Make the General believe that you will move up in the ranks. Play his game. Pretend that you have your sights set on glory and wealth. The only way to break Sylvia free from this cycle of jewels and ballgowns and," a sneer, "propriety, is to go through it boldly and break through the other side."

Just as she finished giving me this goldmine of information, this proverbial cheat sheet for the test that I was about to enter into a fail miserably, the General stirred. A genuinely friendly smile illuminated his round face. He gave me a quick nod of recognition as the door to the atrium was opened. I wanted to thank the maid, whatever her name was, but that would have seemed odd. So instead, I bowed lowly.

"General Ballard, Sir," I addressed him most formally, "thank you for your invitation."

"Nora," said the General to his help, "kindly show… I'm sorry, how should I address you?"

I felt like I was going to be sick. Of course, a man who was eager to see his daughter married off to an accomplished soldier would want to know where I stood. Even after being away for less than a month. I took so long answering him that my chair had already been pulled out by the time I managed to speak, "Cadet, Sir. I'm merely a cadet."

He tilted his bald, shiny head off to one side. I could tell that he was not impressed. "Sylvia will be along shortly. You know how women are with their… hair. Nora? You haven't asked… Cadet Bordon… how he would like his tea."

This Nora character seemed to be the only person in the room who wanted me to succeed. Bombarding her with requests for tea seemed rude, somehow. "Plain," I said, not wanting to give her any trouble, "I'm not terribly particular about my tea." Both General Ballard and Nora looked as though they were either going to laugh or cry.

"Not particular about your tea!?" Shouted the General.

My back longed to slump in humiliation, but I would not allow this. The atrium was hardly silent and was instead covered with large, flourishing plants that lured a variety of songbirds in through the open roof. Still, I could scarcely hear their songs over the ringing in my ears. Nora quickly left to fulfil my terribly dull order and General Ballard and I were left alone on our luxurious chairs that had no purpose being so exposed to the elements.

"What is next on your agenda, Cadet?" General Ballard finally asked. He still seemed cordial and interested in getting to know me regardless of my shortcomings, but I couldn't see this at the time. I managed to mutter an ill-formed sentence about General Howe, Boston and having to remain there well into the summer months. Somehow, he pieced this all together right away and was more than intrigued, but excited for me! "You'll have many opportunities in Boston, I am sure!" Again, I felt queasy. I must have let my guard down and allowed him to see just how nervous I was about my transfer because he changed the subject almost immediately. "Before Sylvia arrives, I would like to run something by you, a question of sorts-"

"Yes." My ears turned red and my face quickly followed. Did I really just interrupt him!? Nora slipped my tea on the table at this point, but I had neither the wits to notice nor the stomach to drink.

"Sorry?"

"I wouldn't be courting your daughter, Sir," I proceeded against my better judgement, blushing more and more with each passing millisecond, "if I didn't intend on eventually marrying her."

Now, it was his turn to blush. "Thank you for that, I suppose." He gave his head another quick shake, "With that in mind, Dear Boy," what a condescending name! If I had started crying on the spot, that probably would have been the reason why! "Can you afford Sylvia?" Everything stopped. The birds, the ringing, the blushing. I was both amused and appalled. Could he really mean what he was saying? That his daughter truly could be _bought_? "You look confused. Allow me to clarify. My daughters are _grand ladies_ , I raised them that way-" As if to contradict his statement, a blood-curdling scream rang out from behind the badminton field. Annoyance, rather than concern for this terrible sound flooded the General's face. Sylvia's three sisters, Celeste, Celine and Cynthia raced across the lawn, trailed closely by the last person that I expected to see. Banastre Tarleton, who stood a good six inches shorter than little Sylvia herself, was directly on Celeste's heels and attempting to shove a shiny, green toad down the back of her dress! "I have since lost hope for my eldest, as you can plainly see. Excuse me." With that, he burst through the door and waddled after Banastre and Celeste, shouting something about how they mustn't abandon their chaperone.

Finally, I could slouch. Indeed, I meant to. But right as my back was about to give way, I felt a hand fall upon my shoulder as lightly and gracefully as a feather. She had appeared out of nowhere, wearing not the same gown as the other night, but one that was white as virgin snow. I scrambled to my feet, bowed lower than I had earlier for her father and swept her hand up in my own, softly kissing the surface of the glove she always wore. General Ballard returned just in time to see this greeting and something about the way that his daughter had planned this picture- our proximity, her gown that was very nearly bridal, and the tender look that she somehow knew we would exchange- these elements helped her father both envision and understand what Sylvia and I dearly desired.

"Thank heavens that blasted Banastre Tarleton has been transferred to the Carolinas," he groaned, pretending to not have been affected by the vision that Sylvia and I were. "Lineage isn't everything, Boy. Remember that." He pointed to me. "Sit down, you two. You're making me nervous." I very nearly laughed. Nerves? The General knew nothing of nerves! "Silly," he started, I would soon learn after several appearances that this was his pet name for his daughter, "I just had a very enlightening conversation with Cadet Bordon…" there it was again, panic. Telling the General that I planned on eventually marrying Sylvia was one hurdle, making those intentions known to Sylvia herself was an entirely different beast! "He is being transferred to Boston." I breathed a sigh of relief, but it was very small. "I know that Celeste met the news of Banastre's new commission with dread and I wanted to see how you feel about this before proceeding."

Sylvia, who was seated just as elegantly as ever looked over at me and smiled. "I feel proud, Father. And confident in his abilities."

A second and even more earsplitting cry sounded from the outdoors. We all looked over and saw Celeste, rolling across the grass as though her dress had been lit on fire. The other two girls stood by, watching in terror as not one, but two massive toads emerged from the frills in her petticoat. General Ballard merely lifted his tea and took a sip. "I'm glad for you, Silly," he said with a sigh, "I am truly, truly… glad."

I successfully avoided Banastre when I exited the estate some hours later. Truth be told, that was the only comfort to arise from having tea with the Ballards. I was both shaken and confused by our meeting and had a feeling that Sylvia was just as distraught. Now, we would have to rely on letters to keep our affections alive. The confidence and pride that she spoke of seemed sincere, but I knew that it would be stealth and technique that would keep me alive in the coming months and I severely lacked in both. Perhaps it would be better to forget her, to let her go and never think of her again. Holding on to this dream would require a certain strength that I simply did not possess. As I walked, I allowed myself to hope one last hope. That she would appear beside me, silently and mysteriously, like she had in the atrium that day. I closed my eyes and could have sworn I felt a hand inside a doeskin glove slide against my palm. My fingers closed around this splendid apparition and found what lay inside them was palpable and real. Sylvia Ballard was following me home. And I was certain that her father would kill me and have her clean up the mess once we were discovered.


	7. The Duet

Her dress was about to be ruined and her shoes were long since gone. I offered to carry her back to the estate, but we were over halfway to my house and Sylvia was an excellent negotiator. She donned the same dress as before and didn't appear to be packed for any kind of an elopement, much to my relief. Her violin was all that she carried, but this cargo was weighted as it held the potential of revealing her secret. So, clever little Sylvia used it as a bargaining chip that would allow her to get her way.

According to her, General Ballard would be able to recognize the instrument, having owned it as a lad and despite its many corridors and the height of the hedges surrounding her home, her escape and return was likely to have its witnesses. Quickly, I devised a half-formed "plan" that entailed allowing her into my house for however long she needed to freshen up and however long _I_ needed to ready myself to return Sylvia, confront the General and above all, stow her violin away in a place that was secret, safe and accessible.

Her father was occupied with wrangling Banastre and his daughters and had apparently entered into a very competitive badminton match, the likes of which would proceed long past supper time. Should he grow suspicious that Sylvia was with me and ride to my door before we had the chance to leave, I would have to martyr myself for her cause. After all, I would sooner have him snap my own neck than that of her beloved violin.

She was alarmingly calm about the dress, but I was in no way prepared to see a lady of her caliber trudging down the muddy road to my property. I scooped her up and carried her, billowing white dress and all, up the walkway and through my front door. Regret set in straight away when I saw that the embarrassing display by the fireside still stood. By the time we were inside my tiny, one-room home, it was already too late.

"I see you were expecting me," she sang, very nearly skipping across the room to the music stand. "So, why do you want me gone so soon, I wonder?"

Instead of tweaking the embarrassing truth into a somewhat believable explanation, I asked for her stockings and made my escape into the kitchen. There, I removed the bucket of water that I had collected that morning and reserved for washing along with a stick of soap and scrubbed the frilly things until they were void of any trace of mud. Sounds of her sweet music wafted through the air as I worked. When I went to hang her stockings near the fire, I tried to catch her eye and grant her a gracious smile in exchange for her song. But Sylvia was far away, lost in a doleful melody of her own creation.

I knew very well that Sylvia was accustomed to receiving gifts without occasion. Had I been in my better mind, I would have realized that she was more accepting than judgmental and that I had no reason to feel embarrassed at all. I busied myself as best I could by cooking us some hot food over the open hearth while Sylvia broke into her new book of staff paper, penning the makings for a new song therein. I was making our plates, steaming pot in hand, when the music stopped and, from out of nowhere, her arms wrapped around me from behind.

"You truly are the kindest man I have ever met!" Her voice grew muffled as her grasp tightened around me like a vice. She had never truly embraced me before. While I should have felt the earth move beneath my feet, this hug was far more akin to one that might be shared between a young girl and her rag doll. "I don't know how to thank you!"

"You can begin by not startling me when I am handling hot food." I shook her off and shoved the bowl of porridge and freshly chopped berries into her hands. "You're going home once your stockings are fully dried. I won't have you catching a cold while you are under my supervision." Her green eyes widened with curiosity as she looked down at the bowl and then to me. "It's porridge, Sylvia."

"Porridge?" She slanted the bowl to and fro, but its sticky contents didn't budge under gravity.

"What were you expecting, prime rib?" She remained incredibly baffled by my offering and I by her response. I understood porridge to be just as British as biscuits and tea and no other family that I knew fit into that category better than the exceedingly posh Ballards. "It's a blank canvas of sorts," I explained, fighting past my disbelief, "as are most grains. You can make it savory with butter or salt. My bunkmate, Charlie uses brandy to flavor his! Or you can make it sweet, like I have by adding berries. Try it. You'll like it. Oh, and I don't have a table, but you are welcome to use the chair-"

"-You don't have a table?!" I had every right to be irked at this point. But each of Sylvia's questions were given in quizzical excitement, rather than sanctimony. She scanned the room, eagerly, as though she was struggling to decide on where to take her meal. "You mean to say… I can have my supper wherever I wish?! On the floor?! The porch?! The windowsill?!"

"You can climb the tree outside and have your porridge on the highest limb if you so desire!" Had I known that she would take this suggestion to heart, I would have taken a less sarcastic route in my naming of options.

One joyous leap into the air later, Sylvia scrambled into the dark outdoors, thus initiating her eager attempt to climb the aging oak tree on my lawn. The struggles that she faced in launching her lanky body from the ground must have been minimal because by the time I reached her, she was several feet above my head!

"Well, this won't do! This won't do at all!" She glowered at the bowl she had left behind on a patch of prickly grass that had browned in the colder months. "If I slide to the end of this branch, will you pass me my supper, Master Bordon?"

Anyone in their right mind would have known that this was a bad idea, but Sylvia had only heard about climbing trees and achieved such height purely through beginner's luck. She scooted along to where the tree's arm grew feeble, ignoring my pleas that she stop and turn back. The thinning wood could no longer support her tiny form and she came tumbling to the ground just as suddenly as she had appeared on the limb!

It was not a detrimental fall by any means and I was about to tell her that it served her right, but the manner in which she had fallen was cause for concern. Sylvia appeared to have recovered just fine and even let out a small chuckle as she reached for her porridge on the ground. But she quickly found that her fingers could not grip the bowl as easily as they should have.

"Is that the arm you landed on?" I asked with a sigh, leaning over and reaching for her lace-laden forearm. None of the bones in her wrist appeared to be out of place, but the flesh was red and tender to my touch. "Strain," I told her in relief, "you just strained the muscle a bit. I'm still nursing countless pulled muscles from training. You'll have to be gentle with it for a couple of days, but your playing won't suffer in the slightest."

Both her injury and the knowledge that it was minor seemed to mellow her out. We returned inside where she continually tried to grip the neck of her violin and play virtually every scale known to man with her usual agility. "Let it rest," I told her every time she played an incorrect note. "It will heal faster with rest."

Eventually, she put down the violin, left the music stand and sat, leaning her back against the base of the large armchair that I was seated upon. I quietly admired the glistening hairs on the nape of her neck, the ones that were too short to be swept up and placed at the top of her head with the rest of her round, balletic bun. With each breath, those tiny hairs as soft as goose down, reflected shards of the moonlight that crept through the window coverings. I breathed her in and longed to pull her near, to touch my lips to those wisps and swirls of gold, but I did not. I merely pondered on my wicked, boyish vision of the hairs that she never displayed, because they were too private and intimate, but that surely possessed the same enticing beauty and coloring.

"This has happened to you before?" She asked, capturing my lust like the freezing stream does to a submerged leaf.

"It happens all the time." I sat on the ground, this gesture was meant to appear as though I was giving her my seat, but I knew that Sylvia wouldn't budge. I wanted to be near her, to touch her, and I did. "Sometimes I'm able to rub the pain out. If you'd like, I could do the same for you." She surrendered her arm to me, no questions asked. At first, I simply massaged the sorest part of her wrist as she looked on. I even told her why I was applying pressure in certain locations instead of others so that she might tend to her arm after I dropped her off at home. But the relentless magnetism between our two bodies caused us to move closer. Every ten minutes or so, I would slow down. Sylvia would consistently ask that I continue, and I could not say no. Gradually, her head came to rest on my shoulder and I let go of her wrist, just long enough to wrap my arm around her back and bring her in to my tightening embrace.

"If I have ever been rude to you," she said, nuzzling into my coat, "please know that I meant nothing by it and was merely nervous. Your companionship is the loveliest gift that I have ever received, and I wouldn't trade it for all the riches in the world."

I pulled her injured wrist to my lips and gave it several slow kisses of indulgence. I wanted to be careful, to suspend the outcome of whatever it was that we appeared to be racing towards, but I could not. The appeal of her softness and warmth was much too great. "You're nervous?! Every time I look at you, I feel as though my heart might leap out of my chest!"

The placement of her head lowered, only stopping once she had found my beating heart. "And to think, we used to believe that we had nothing in common." I returned her hand, watching nervously as it grazed the glistening buttons that studded the center of my coat. She must have heard the spike in my heartrate because she immediately suspended this subtle sexual advance. We didn't speak for a long while afterwards and in the silence, we relaxed into a nearly dreamlike trance. Her breathing grew all the more intoxicating the closer that she moved to slumber, but she was my dearest friend in all the world and I would sooner die than take advantage of her.

I carried her across the room, to the isolated corner by the window where my bed stood and placed her lovingly beneath the only blanket that I owned. As I was moving her reddened wrist into its warm covering, her brow furrowed involuntarily in pain. Gently, I caressed the unraveling ringlets that framed her beautiful face and hummed the melody to the song that I had deemed as "ours". She smiled in her sleep and I nearly blushed. Speaking was challenging enough for me, singing or humming was nearly unheard of. As I left her to lay alone in my bed, her consciousness surfaced just long enough for her to whisper a soft, "Thank you for all that you have done for me today."

I made myself comfortable in the armchair by the fire and fell asleep with nearly as much ease as Sylvia had. Several hours later, I awoke to the sight and sound of her, practicing her scales several feet in front of me. She had removed her dress and corset and wore only a white chemise that had slipped off slightly as she played, exposing her bare shoulder. At first, I thought that this was merely a dream, a fantasy ignited by the simple fact that Sylvia Ballard was sleeping in my bed- but the blanket that I left her with earlier had been placed across my chest. I felt the itch of its fibers between my fingers and knew that I was awake. Standing upright, I dragged the thick fabric behind me and was ready to drape it over her shoulders, when her playing reached an urgent pause.

"You were trembling in the cold," she told me in an explanation for why she had returned the blanket, "it's so cold for April." I reached out, making to pull the sleeve of her chemise over her shoulder, thus protecting her modesty. "Leave it," Sylvia demanded, and it was so. "Your hand can stay." She turned and looked upright, her face was radiant by the light of the dying embers.

I only shook my head. "Sylvia, you are reckless. And it frightens me."

She pouted, childishly. Giving me a brief glimpse of the defiant young girl who I used to dread delivering parcels to. And had somehow grown to adore. "Why?"

"Because I have fallen in love with you." My heart, my mind, my nerves all felt as though they had been thrust into a boiling pot of water with this confession.

She placed her violin on the ground and stood to face me, "And what is love if it is not reckless and frightening?" Both of her hands found their way to my chest. Her lack of clothing caused me to both hope for and dread what was surely about to happen between us. Rather than unbuttoning my coat, she balanced her forehead on my breastbone. "Do you remember what I told you about fear? How it assumes the role of a companion when it tells you to run and a compass when it points you to an obstacle that you must overcome?" Her eyes traveled to meet mine and I saw in them a mirroring of my own longing.

"You are hardly an obstacle, Sylvia." I told her, tucking a golden tendril behind her ear. "You are… a paragon… you are-" She requested my silence by touching her callused fingers to my lips. There was no saying who was leading us, but we both ventured backwards, not stopping until the back of my legs were touching the armchair. "You should know," I told her with a quiver in my voice, "I have never made love to a woman before." Without so much as a smile or a shrug, she unraveled my hair and started to remove my uniform.

My coat was the first to fall, beside the abandoned blanket on the floor. The arousal that I felt was strictly internalized until she moved in to assist me with my breeches. She appeared startled by this change. Her reaction was subtle, yes, but just telling enough to inform me that we were both entering uncharted territory; that we were both virgins. "I cannot give it back," I said lowly as we moved together, onto the chair, "once I have taken from you."

She seduced my lips with nothing more than the warmth of her breath. "Nor can I. Although I am," she paused and for the first time in all my years of knowing her, I could see that bold and dauntless little Sylvia Ballard was truly afraid, "I am terribly uncertain of how to proceed."

"Slowly," I whispered, giving it my best guess. "Slowly and deeply, Sylvia. Like a waltz."

Our first kiss and first penetration occurred in perfect unison. We became one, like two notes that are born out of silence and played in harmony at the start of a song's first debut. But what was intensely pleasurable for me was agonizing for Sylvia. Her fists balled around the fabric of the shirt that I had yet to remove. Tears filled her eyes and clung to her long eyelashes like drops of dew.

"Have I hurt you?" I halted my body sharply. "I have! Oh, Sylvia, I am so sorry!"

She drew me closer and granted me further passage by tucking her legs between my back and the chair's large cushion. "No," she said in defiance of the tear tracks that trailed from her eyes like wayward brushstrokes on a clean canvas, "no, Sweetheart. You are perfect."

I placed my chin on her shoulder, hiding the elation on my face as I explored the tight, virginal chamber between her thighs. She stifled her pain, channeling her anguish into airy breaths, each one housing the phantom of a cry. Over time, her breathing escalated into gasps and from there, into a line of melodious moans with varying levels of softness and loudness. Her face came into view and I saw the look of endorsement that she wore for this tug and pull, this give and take towards some unknown crescendo.

There was some repetition within the measures of rhythm that we were creating, some lines and phrases were experimental and new. I moved her to lay across the arm rests, putting all my weight, all my desire to where we were joined. She stretched herself over the edge, exposing both the whiteness of her throat and the faintest incline of her youthful bosom from beneath the chemise. I started at her thighs and pushed my hands upwards beneath the fabric. Her breasts were small, but palpable enough to be kneaded and manipulated by my palms and fingers. She delayed her pleasure just long enough to discard the chemise, giving my eyes and hands full access to her naked body.

When most men fantasize about a woman, they imagine her as curvaceous and exotic with ample breasts and sturdy, childbearing hips. My precious sylph possessed none of those attributes and was instead as slender as a reed with the frail strength of a child. The realization of her youth, that she was only in the final months of her teenage years and was now beneath the weight of a _man_ who was larger and older than she, made me want to stop and take it all back. I longed to pause for an assessment of how she was faring beneath me, but found that I had gone completely mute. Instead, I settled on gifting each plateau of her pale shoulders with a sympathetic kiss and felt such relief when she smiled in response.

She slipped my shirt over my head and even then, I felt shy as her fingertips danced across the hardening muscles in my chest. I could tell that she wanted to speak, too, but she was possessed by an incoming wave of ecstasy that swept her far away. I watched the transformation of her face, the thoughtful crease in her brow, the look in her eyes that captured both ferocity and submission. A beautiful chain of desperate sighs came next. She was climbing higher and higher, towards the summit of euphoria. I grabbed hold of her hand and watched in adoration as she soared. Instead of fully climaxing, she reached for me and pulled me inwards, wrapping her arms and legs tighter and tighter. I gave her everything I could and together, we burned in intense brightness and heat.

Beads of sweat rushed in to cool us, to renew us so that we might continue. We had fought so gallantly, clung so tightly only to let go amidst the soft reverberations of our euphonious cries. It was both crescendo and fermata. We rode the high for as long as we could, both believing that we could sail above the dark and turbulent skies forever. But we were merely mortals and could not remain in paradise for more than a fleeting moment. Our pulses slowly steadied. We became ourselves again, but continued to cling to one another, naked and vulnerable as newborn babes. I removed the damp hair from her brow, leaving soft kisses along her hairline as she reclined, supporting the back of her neck in the crook of my arm.

We had saved our words for now, for our recovery. There, in that sweet echo that lingered like the ring in a concert hall once the music has cut out, I searched for my voice but, to my despair, began to cry. Just like I had in the barracks as I lay in excruciating pain. "Are you still hurting?" I asked, still consumed by my guilt. Sylvia shook her head and kissed the points on my face where each tear had fallen. "Did I hold you too tightly?"

"Well…" she grinned playfully, moving her lips across the muscles in my upper torso. "You _are_ very strong. But I love that about you. You make me feel safe." She saw that I had not recovered and chuckled, trying her best to lighten my mood. "Why are you crying, Sweetheart?"

"Why me, Sylvia? Of all the brave and handsome men to ever visit your estate, I was the one to catch your eye. Why? It is not your wealth and grace that sets you apart from the rest of the common world. You are a protégé. You can and will make history with your music. So how- how is it that tonight, you gave yourself, body and soul to a chubby parcel boy?" She looked so puzzled, as though my question was entirely absurd. "You could have anyone, anyone at all. Any man to ever pass through your door need only speak to you to see the treasure that you are."

"Even if that were true, no man would ever stand a chance against you," she assured me. "For as long as I can remember, even before I fully understood why I felt that way, I would wait for you. I would look forward to your visits. Not only because you brought me the means to play my music, but… you are right to think that you are not like other men. You are patient and sweet," the gentlest, loveliest smile graced her lips, "and funny! I only ever saw you. No one else. Just you. You were perfection from the start."

After comforting me with a deep kiss, Sylvia placed her head against my shoulder. I looked down at her soft form, spread across me like a blanket of snow. But the whiteness of her body was tainted by a dark smear of crimson on the inside of her thigh. It stained her flesh deeply, darkly like the juices of a pomegranate on white satin. I could still recall the expression that she wore the moment that I robbed her of her virtue. Though she tried with all her might to mask her cries, I heard and felt the rattling impact of each one. I urged myself to revisit the fairer moments of our first sexual congress. But upon the recollection of my one subtle glance at her femininity, I was forced to think on the blood that had poured from its soft, pink burnish as I vanquished her. Guilt had arrived again but was quickly countered by a soft breeze of my beautiful sylph's scent- the sweet, light fragrance of damp earth that had grown into an aphrodisiac-like intensity at the peak of our intimacy.

"Make love to me again," Sylvia whispered, guiding my hands over her breasts and towards their newly proclaimed territory, "let us not waste a moment of the time that we have been given."

We journeyed to my bed and started anew on the crisp, creaseless sheets. It was the beginning of a new movement in a larger symphony. We were bolder and faster than before, but no less tender. The moon lost its coverage and cast shadows through the trees and all across where Sylvia lay beneath me.

She called out to me, staring across the horizons in my eyes and straight into my soul. I shut them tightly, trying not to lose count of the tempo that we had fallen into. Any exchange of words during intercourse was said to be the effect of heightened emotions. Exaggerations. Lies. That was one of the many reasons why I preferred to remain silent until we were through. Instead of trying to speak to me a second time, she pulled me down so that I might cover her. Sylvia was beautifully peculiar in the sense that the magnitude of her climax depended upon the tightness of her lover's embrace. I would have given her what she desired, I would have grabbed hold of her and never let go, but a thunderous knock on the door startled us both.

"Sylvia!" General Ballard's voice boomed from outside. "Sylvia! Are you here, Child?!" He didn't exactly sound upset, more concerned than anything, but the thudding of his boots as he moved from window to window gave a sense of his growing frustration.

All the windows in my house had coverings, except for the one above my bed, which had fallen and required a repair. Sylvia and I slinked into the shadows as best we could. Our mutual pleasure was too advanced to come to a full close. Looking back, I still curse myself for my inability to stop, especially when he reached the window that we were laying beneath. The sight of the armchair and our discarded clothes was partially blocked by the wall that jutted out from beside the kitchen. Had any of my other curtains been misplaced, or if the room had been brighter, he would have seen enough to give us away. The soft gyrations that I gave to his youngest daughter as General Ballard stood less than a foot away, combined with the inevitable increase in our heartrates from the suspense, were enough to lead her to orgasm. I stopped breathing all together and watched as her cheeks and lips blushed redder than burgundy velvet. She turned her head so that the side of her face lay on the border of the friendly shadow that had covered us. Her contraction was all-consuming and I was deep enough to feel the full force of her love. I grabbed hold of her hand, helping her through in the only way I could. Every ounce of pleasure and pain that should have been a perfect fortissimo, was condensed into a noiseless sigh. We heard her father ride away as we were descending. We knew that our presence that not been sensed- that we were safe.

Not long after this incident, we both slipped away into a content slumber. When the first light of morning moved through the window, I saw that Sylvia was seated beside me on the bed with the book of staff paper spread across her naked lap.

I touched back, placing several kisses along the arch in her spine and upwards to the base of her swanlike neck with its tender hairs that I so deeply fetishized. "We should go." She was too preoccupied with what appeared to be a drawing to respond. "What is that of? Not me, I hope!"

Sylvia looked over her shoulder at me with a gentle smile. "You have freckles." She moved her one free hand across my arms, my chest, my abdomen- everywhere the small appearances of freckles could be found. "I didn't notice them in the dark."

I let out a nervous laugh. Daylight has a funny way of revealing one's imperfections. "You should use that paper for your music, Sylvia. For something beautiful."

She put the book off to the side and moved over me, covering me completely and doting upon the blush that spread across my body as my excitement grew. In the moments before we became one for the last time in what would seem like forever, Sylvia spoke, "I tried to tell you this last night. There is no poet, no painter, no composer whose work could surpass what I feel when I see you. Now I know what I have been searching for, what my music has been lacking all these years! The sound of your voice, the gentleness of your kiss, the power of your mighty embrace, the way that both shadows and light play off your flesh and hair," a chuckle, "and yes, your freckles. The longing that you hear in my music has always been for you. Now, thanks to what you gave me last night, it can finally grow and flourish into something that is real and whole. You are my muse. I love you."

 **Author's Note: So, I had to bump the rating up to "M" because Boris and Sylvia are idiots. I have no real way of tracking who reads my work, "story eyes" only gives me numbers and locations. Ratings are so tricky because the idea of "explicitness" is deeply subjective. So, if you are a younger reader or simply did not approve of the content of this chapter for any reason, I deeply apologize. I use this tangent a lot, but I don't aim to shock or offend. I don't write "sex" stories, I write "real life" stories- or rather, I simply want to capture real life in my writing and intimacy is well… biologically, all life depends on it! To use the words of that rascally kid, Tommy Martin in "A Long and Lonely Mile",** ** _we are all sexually transmitted humans_** **! In all seriousness, though, I'm sorry for any shocks or startles. Despite its new rating, the story will continue to be "clean", if not a bit dramatic. Lol. X**


	8. Back to Reality

**A/N: If it seems like I'm ripping off** ** _Pirates of the Caribbean_** **in this chapter, it's because I am. Carry on.**

Sylvia slipped her violin into the hollow of a weathered, roadside tree. I remained several yards away, mounted and watchful of everything within the perimeter. The extravagant, wrought iron entryway to the estate was just on the horizon and although we appeared to be alone, the area was thickly vegetated and filled with potential hiding places for inquiring eyes. For all we knew, the entire Ballard Family could be watching us from behind the hedges!

Once satisfied, Sylvia turned towards me and strolled across the grass, shoes in hand. She had fixed herself up just as properly as ever that morning, but there was something about her appearance that seemed unhinged. The twists of hair at the top of her head were done just a touch looser than usual, her gait was less unyielding, and both her cheeks and dainty gradient of cleavage clung to the flush that I had left them with before we dressed ourselves.

"Come," I beckoned, reaching out for her hand that always seemed so delicate against my thick, short fingers, "come quickly." Tears began to wash over the green meadows in her eyes and I looked away. Not through cruelty or indifference, but simply out of the fear that seeing her cry would cause a chain reaction. And I had shown enough weakness for both of us within the last twelve hours! "Remember what we discussed," I allowed her body to lean into mine once she was correctly situated between the saddle and the neck of my horse, "if we can remain strong and stick to our lines, no harm will come to you. Your welfare matters more than my own."

She shook her head. I knew that she would do this. That her need to rebel would outweigh her logic. "There has to be another way," she whispered from over her shoulder, "no matter how we tilt it, there will be consequences and you don't have to face them alone!"

My horse's feet were steadfast on the path ahead. When we reached the incline in the road, the grand estate at the top of the hill came into full view. Every polished window met the newly risen sun and seemed to me a row of tiny spies. My left arm clung tightly around Sylvia's waist- tighter than it meant to. "You will do what I have asked of you!" I hissed, venting my frustration both at her _and_ the burning desire that I felt to seduce and be seduced by her soft, white body, even now.

"And if I do not!? I will not sit idly by and watch as you take the blame for what I initiated!"

My face turned hot. I was willing to risk everything for her- my career as a soldier, my reputation around town as a kind and trustworthy working man, and even my life if General Ballard felt so inclined! How could she be so ungrateful? Something stirred from behind the window nearest to the thick, swan-crested front door. I called her to attention by shouting her name as quietly as I could muster. "Sylvia! We are being watched!" Thank heavens for those silly doeskin gloves that she wore. I would have been embarrassed if she felt just how slick with sweat my own hands had become. She reached for me, but I did not oblige, though it killed me to do so. "Show me no affection. Remember, I forced you to come with me last night and you denied me over and over until you grew weary and could refuse no more!"

"Your worst story yet," she groaned, hardly phased as the handle turned, and the door popped open, "Papa knows that I'm a thousand times more resolute than you are painting me!"

"Resolute? Bah! You are a spoiled little brat and you are about to land us both in a world of trouble because you can't listen to anyone!" My words spilled out of my mouth and into her ear so rapidly that it amazed us both. She looked up at me, pulling my vision away from the ominous shadow that stood like a reaper in the doorway. She was giggling at me, the little scamp! I assumed this was a coping mechanism, a means of mourning the hope that she had clearly abandoned but that I still advocated. "Well, I hope you're satisfied. You've doomed us _both_."

I held my breath as the observer stepped out of the darkness. Nora's appearance shouldn't have surprised me. She was the proverbial gatekeeper of the building, the only person to open and close that heavy door, for all I knew. She shut it behind her noisily, surely awakening everyone within a five-mile radius, and moved towards us just as quickly as her tiny legs could carry her.

"You've had your father worried sick!" She growled, slapping her wrinkled hand against Sylvia's thigh before making to swipe her clean off the saddle. "Get down! Get down here this instant!" I was the first to dismount and assist the foolish child the proper way once my feet were on solid ground. "I expected better from you two!" Giggling Sylvia was clearly going to be of little help. I opened my mouth to speak, ready to salvage the story that I had come up with for General Ballard, but Nora cut me off and carefully parsed the subtle changes in our coloring. "Thank the Lord Almighty your father isn't home to see this! It would break his heart in two to know that his youngest, his sweetest, his most virtuous-" she paused momentarily and slapped Sylvia clean across her face, thus destroying her fleet of juvenile, albeit melodious, laughter. "You look atrocious." She licked her fingertips and started to fuss over the disheveled pieces of Sylvia's hair.

"I can assure you, Ma'am," I started to say, "Miss Ballard and I were merely-"

"-you'd better get far away from here-" Nora stuck her finger so close to my face that she nearly ran my eye straight through, "and quickly, before the family returns! As for you, Silly, I have kept your secrets safe through all kinds of weather. But this time… I can only pray that there are no sins between you two. If there are, they have a way of eventually showing themselves. And you are in no way equipped to deal with those consequences." She was speaking, of course, about birthing a child out of wedlock and the notion of Sylvia going through such a trial while I was away (or, let's face it… deceased), caused my heart to sink like a stone. "Come now, Silly. Bid a quick adieu to Master Bordon and I'll have some water brought in for your bath."

As we turned to face one another, I fell mute. Any humor, any levity that Sylvia had tried to ring in by laughing her way through that uncomfortable conversation had shattered midair and was now raining down in the form of painful tears.

"I will write you letters. Everyday," she vowed, trying to embrace me. But her arms merely hung over my shoulders, weakened by her despair. "And think of you every moment that you are away. Until I hold you again. And I will."

I had to respond. I simply had to! But my voice was gone, lost amidst the churning waves of countless emotions. In our final moment together, before Nora arrived, I had called her a spoiled brat. What if I truly was to die in battle and that was to become her last memory of me? She had infuriated me and certainly, an introverted woman would have been more befitting for my tastes and lifestyle. But I loved wistful Sylvia. Every thought in my head, whim in my heart and cell in my body called out for her and depended on her for their survival. A season without her would be like a season without nourishment, without joy. I took hold of her with tender strength, running my hands across her back and giving her as much comfort as I possibly could. The more that Nora urged us to part, the tighter we held one another.

Before leaving my sweet Sylvia behind, I placed my hand beneath her chin and guided her lips to mine. "Until that time," I said at last, with all my strength. Her mouth was just as soft and warm and lovely as it had always been, but I can still recall how pained I was to taste the tears that had fallen therein- that she had shed for me. "Farewell, my love." It would have been easier to ride away without looking back, but I let myself down. I looked over my shoulder right as I was passing through the gate. She didn't look as devastated as I felt inside and true, I glimpsed an eagerness to follow, but she looked proud, above all. By remembering how she looked at me that day, Sylvia would come to save my life.

I was just barely picked up by the final wave of soldiers leaving for Boston. It was both belittling and comforting to see just how many of us had been commissioned under General Howe. My bunkmate Charlie Gibbons and I found one another right away and I initiated a light conversation about our weekend home, but he didn't wish to contribute.

"Go bother the bottom feeders, why don't you?" Charlie said coldly, pointing to a rather motley line of men who were holding up the rear.

The back of the line was a vulnerable place to be. I stuck to Charlie as best I could and remained towards the center, but one of the individuals who he had so informally addressed as a "bottom feeder" started gossiping lightly about the affairs of the Ballard Family. I eased my horse from a comfortable trot to a walk and fell behind. The man who started this conversation wore the handsome wardrobe of a captain, but seemed to me "one of the boys". Perhaps that is why I felt that he would be incapable of looking out for us less fortunate few in the event of an ambush. But he clearly had information about what had happened while Sylvia and I were hiding away from the rest of the world. Curiosity had grabbed hold of me and was refusing to let go.

"How about ye, laddie!?" The ragged captain asked me after several seconds of fruitless eavesdropping. So much for appearing discreet! "Have ye heard of the latest fiasco that ol' Bloody Ban started last night!? I heard he and Lawrie Ballard had quite a row!"

I cocked my head to the side, bewildered. Banastre wasn't General Ballard's favorite person, especially after the incident with the toads. But if there was anyone that he would have a row with, it would be me. "Sir?" I addressed him politely by tipping my hat. "I cannot say that I have."

The gentleman was soon bookended by two officers who wanted in on the dirty details, as well. I tried my best to lock my eyes on the Captain as he spoke, but the way that these two men were looking at me caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. One was very lanky, tall and blind in one eye while the other was so plump that he made me look thinner than the E string on Sylvia's violin. Breezes of laughter moved over the tops of their broken, yellowing teeth and I knew at last why Charlie had addressed these men so condescendingly. Nobody in their right mind would want to travel alongside the likes of them!

"Haven't seen ye around before," he shot me a smile that would pass as thoroughly hygienic in comparison to the two frightening onlookers, "ye can call me Captain Greer!" He threw off his hat, revealing what was left of his black, oily hair. "These lost souls are Wile and Clay. I've been asked to shoot their arses sky high if they try any funny business again, ay lads?!"

My fear for what Captain Greer meant by this must have shown, because the thinner of the two men informed me with a crooked sneer, "Desertion."

His "friend" leaned over and gestured a swatting motion midair. "We talked about this, Wile. Truancy. There's a difference. If it were 'desertion', you'd already be dead!"

Wile looked at the ground with his one good eye and nodded, obediently. But it seemed doubtful that he had actually retained anything. After pausing briefly, we could hear him mutter in his unbelievably thick cockney accent, "I must've thought it was 'desertion' because I went whoring instead of patrolling. And them ladies sure are sweet."

I cringed. Whatever their crimes were didn't matter much to me, I just wanted to hear what Captain Greer knew about the Ballards so that I might pass the remainder of the long journey in silence. "And… regarding Banastre?"

"Ah, Ban!" Captain Greer nearly shouted, relieved to abandon the topic of Wile's perversions, "Well, ye see-"

"General Howe has these four daughters," Clay interrupted, jabbing his finger in and out of his bellybutton. I should probably explain that most of the man's stomach protruded over the top of his breaches and in between the spaces where fasteners had popped off his shirt and coat. And to think, I used to receive hell for not shining my buttons properly! "That's one-two-three-four. If they were lined up shoulder-to-shoulder, you'd have a line of eight, perfect tits!" The sinner in me couldn't help but smile, he didn't know the half of it! But the revolting laugh that Wile produced when he heard this brought me back down to earth again. "And Ban, that scoundrel-"

"Tell 'im about the harpsichord! Tell 'im about the harpsichord!" Wile chanted stupidly and plopped up and down in his saddle.

Clay reached into his saddlebag, wadded a handful of biscuits up in his chubby hand and thrust the crumbs towards Wile. None of them reached him and blew all across Captain Greer's face instead. "I'M TELLING THE STORY!"

Once most of the biscuit crumbs had dispersed themselves into the road in tiny puffs, Captain Greer removed his pistol and pointed it at Clay's head. "Silence! From both of ye! I've a hand so quick, King George himself plucked me out of Scotland so I could shoot traitors and fools to me heart's content! And ye laddies are both traitors _and_ fools! Now, General Ballard has four daughters. Blonde, bonny, a row of eight perfect tits, if ye follow." Wile and Clay chortled as though this 'joke' was new to them. "His youngest went missing last night and he went all over town looking for the lassie. She's nineteen years of age, but very wee. And a gentle little thing, to my understanding. He called his search off around four and returned home to find Tarleton in his parlor, with three of his daughters, piss drunk and playing the harpsichord in naught but his small clothes!"

While Wile and Clay had a heyday laughing over this, I covered my relief as best I could. Banastre's presence while I was over for tea was inadvertently beneficial for my cause. Despite my humble origins, he seemed to believe that I was not one to behave so frivolously. Perhaps he had saved me this time, too. But I had to make sure, "Three of his daughters? What of his youngest?"

"Everyone suspects she caused a diversion." Captain Greer explained, pocketing his pistols, "Banastre holds the heart of all the Ballard Lasses. Save for her! But she's a gullible little lamb."

"Poor General Ballard," Clay removed his hat, theatrically and gave his round, balding head a shake. "He thinks his girls are… what was the term?"

"Grand Ladies!" Wile flashed his unsightly teeth and chuckled mockingly.

Captain Greer appeared amused by this notion as well, he let out a laugh so ugly that it could have belonged to either of the men that he was 'supervising'. "He thinks they're all virgins! But his youngest is the only virgin in the bunch!"

I feigned a smile and urged my horse forward. My airways grew tight and my hands grew numb. I had no words for these men and appearing normal was no longer an option. The shockwaves from the beast's canter caused the guilt and sickness in my pit of my stomach to combine and I skewed off into the shoulder of the road. Gunfire filled the air. At first, I was afraid that Captain Greer thought that I had gone mad and was attempting to flee. But that wasn't the case at all.

"We're under attack!" I heard him shout. "Quick lads! Return fire! And don't let me catch ye making a run for it! I'll gut ye just like these filthy rebel swine!"

From out of the deep trenches along the roadway, several dozen militiamen in mismatched clothing emerged. When their eyes found mine, I longed to throw my hands up in surrender, but the sights and sounds of my comrades falling all around me filled my heart with a newfound bravery. I reached for my musket and started to shoot, missing every target. While reloading, I diverted my attention and felt a sudden, searing pain of a musketball ripping through the skin above my kneecap. It was just as Banastre had predicted- I was hit.


	9. The Gift

Time and again, they asked for my account of what had happened. But my memories of the ambush were fragmented and insufficient at best. I would hear the other wounded soldiers speaking of how courageous I had been and that I had turned back to assist Captain Greer when all others had fled. The man that they spoke of didn't sound like me at all. I was taught from an early age to run from any immediate threats on my life and Sylvia's methodology of fear remained at the forefront of my mind; especially when I was staring danger in the eye. I could have run like those cowards, Wile and Clay. But there was a part of me, the part indeed that believed such men to be cowardly, that had remained dormant, untapped until that day.

Oddly enough, it would be the dreams that I had as I lay in recovery to give me the missing pieces that they sought. The pain would renew itself and I would experience the moment that the cold, interloping musket ball became lodged in my muscle. This terrible memory would repeat itself every time I fell asleep. It was more acute than any of the strains that had debilitated my body during training. This heightened version of physical agony had pushed me past the realm of longing to surrender. To simply lay down and die because that would be easier than fighting against it. The red explosion of fire from the cracking muskets' snouts, the clash of rapiers and my first real viewing of carnage shocked and thrilled my psyche just as greatly as this new way to experience pain. I must have pushed those images and feelings far away when I finally fell. So that I would only revisit them as I slept.

I was frequently visited by a young officer. A peculiar fellow with a narrow face and a single, slender braid. He showed me great patience and concern, and I found myself giving him more information than those who were less fair of face and kind of heart. He told me that Captain Greer was recovering in a nearby facility and was curious about my condition. The old Captain wanted to make sure that I would be relieved of my duties with the same honor that I had shown him. This meant, of course, that I would be able to return home, to Sylvia. But it also meant that everyone who had assisted in my recovery believed that my service to the King was over before it began. I knew, with the same internal echo that had urged me to martyr myself for Sylvia and informed that desertion was a coward's game, that I was nowhere near the end.

Standing seemed a fool's errand. Walking, a fantasy. But I was determined to move myself, even if I was limited to small, broken fractions of inches at first. Whenever the staff wasn't looking, I would make tiny efforts to push the foot at the end of my wounded leg over the side of my bed and onto the floor. Sleeping, eating and speaking didn't matter as much as being able to stand and move against those brutal tides of pain. On the morning that I finally stood, I walked a few paces shy of a meter before collapsing. Fate would have it that the same man, the only person who seemed to be on my side, would be the one to find me.

"You walked here?" He pulled me up and raised my arm over the top of his bony shoulder for support. "All by yourself?"

I was far too preoccupied with remembering how to stand with a wobbly, throbbing knee to reply. But this man, this selfless, intuitive soldier saw my tenacity and wanted to help. He did not return me to my bed. We walked, step by excruciating step, past the dark rows of beds that stood like graves and into the softly illuminated hallway. We didn't speak, we merely trusted and collaborated in perfect tandem. The liberation that I felt was encouraging and he seemed to grow weary under my weight long before I tired from making those steps. Finally, we stopped to rest a while in a small common room and he left to find me some water.

I had been so blinded by my sense of accomplishment that I didn't pause to fully assess where I had come to rest. Namely, the flat surface of a piano bench. I leaned over and wiped the dampness from my brow and as I was catching my breath, I noticed a small, dark case that lay dormant alongside my ankles. A subtle reminder of the woman who had fallen out of my mind only to be replaced by ambition.

"Do you play?" My new companion asked when he saw that I had moved the case into my lap.

"G, D, A and E." I muttered mindlessly, unboxing the violin and touching each string. A yellow name card that was sticking haphazardly against the interior of the case pulled my eyes away from the beautiful instrument. I read it aloud and returned the treasure straight away, " _Major John Andre_. Something tells me I shouldn't have opened this…"

"I assure you, my friend," he placed the glass of water in my hands and dislodged the violin from its encasement, "Major Andre doesn't mind. However," his brow creased after realizing how out of tune it had become, "he does get rather frustrated with how often one must tune this infernal things."

There were several stacks of unbound music at the bottom of the case. I lazily perused them as this "Major John Andre" character made his corrections and started to practice some scales. It took only one note to affect me. The dams that I had built up in my heart, separating me from Sylvia and allowing me to leave her behind in New Jersey dismantled themselves.

"Anonymous," I muttered, removing a piece that looked so challenging, it made my fingers ache. Rolling hills of expressive lines dominated each page. The sudden shifts in time signatures along with the thoughtfully placed, and sometimes surprising, builds and declines in loudness and softness, harshness and tenderness reminded me so much of Sylvia's lovemaking that just reading it made me blush from head to toe! "Violin Concerto No. 3, Op. 79. So, how many of these has _Anonymous_ written, exactly!?"

"Ah, 'The Sylph'. A real minx, isn't she?" A dimple appeared in Andre's cheek as he grinned, playing the piece from memory. "Oh, don't look so alarmed! Feel the way her music seduces the ear. Those soft waves that build and build, only to snatch the emotions that have built inside of you and leave you empty and alone as you face bloody cataclysmic chaos? Only a woman can cheat you like that." He reached a softer, classically melodic phrase and his outlook on Sylvia's music came to a nearly psychological shift. "A terrible thing to say, I suppose. I spoke to a vendor back in New York who claimed to know her sponsor personally. He told me that she wrote this concerto when she was only seven!" I must have been staring stupidly out into space at this time because Andre openly laughed at my expression. "That will surely be the collective look of everyone in Vienna when a woman's music outsells Mozart's. Of course, this is my theory only. It could be complete tosh."

I wagered a half-nod. It was the best that I could do. "It's probable. The feminine mind is a mysterious place."

The redness on my face and the love in my eyes that the music had exhumed must have given me away. "No need to fret, soldier," Andre coaxed, passing the violin off to me, "you'll be back to the ladies of New Jersey before long. If you keep showing progress like you have today, I'd-"

"I am not returning to New Jersey anytime soon," I ensured him before taking a humiliatingly terrible stab at the only scale that I remembered how to play. "I am needed in Boston. So, it is to Boston that I intend to go."

His grin grew tenfold. "You are an honorable man. A shite violinist. But honorable nonetheless. Listen, I have business in Connecticut. But I will inform General Howe of your intentions, if you are certain that is the route that you wish to take," Andre waited for my nod and once it was his, he plucked the name card from the case, pulled a dull pencil from behind the music and scratched the original text from the yellow paper. "Bordon, correct?"

A sudden stampede of nerves overtook me. "What are you doing, Major?" It was exactly what it looked like. He wrote my own name atop the scribbles with undeniably perfect penmanship and placed the case across my lap, all while thoughtfully avoiding my bandaged knee. "Respectfully, Sir, I cannot accept this."

"It should remain in here, do you understand?" Said he, hardly moved by my demand, "Instruments are only allowed in the common rooms and not the wards. I will bring my other copies of The Sylph's music over before my departure this evening. You can use them and your new violin as incentives to get up and walk each day."

Any attempts to argue with Andre fell flat. He was nearly as stubborn as Sylvia, herself! But he seemed so entuned with what I lacked: Sylvia's music, a channel for my pain and frustration and yes, incentive. I finally settled on thanking him, although such a response hardly seemed sufficient. You see, I used to deliver parcels and played the role of mediator between gifts and recipients of gifts. I had chosen items for Sylvia in New York and gifted them to her. But never before had I truly been on the receiving end of such an exchange. While I lacked the means of fully explaining myself, he understood this about me as well.

He remained by my side a while longer, gently reminding me of which finger went where and how to hold the bow without causing it to fall to the floor. Although it did not completely vanish, the simple act of taking silence and turning it to music allowed me to forget about my physical pain for a while. Even after my new friend was called away, I stayed in the common room and didn't feel so alone. In the weeks that followed, music became a sanctuary for me. A reward for my efforts every time I fought through my pain and walked. I had always assumed that her violin gave Sylvia an escape from the pains of the world, as well. Now we had something else in common!

I didn't want to tell her about my injury, out of fear of embarrassment. But I knew that she would grow concerned if the letters that she sent to Boston remained unanswered. So, I suspended the seemingly impossible task of learning how to play one of her many masterful concertos and used my daily visits with my new violin to come up with a song of my own creation. It was laughable in comparison to her work, of course, but I enclosed it in anyway in the last of the letters that I sent off before my release. It was my hope that this could become a new tradition between Sylvia and I, a penning of both letters and music. It wouldn't be the same as having her nearby and hearing for myself the acrobatic phrases of melody that sprung from her brilliant mind and out into the world, but it would be a beautiful compromise, nonetheless.

 **Merry Christmas, Boris- I hope you enjoy your new violin and new friend! You were kind of in dire need of both…**

 **Sorry for the shortness of the chapter, but I wanted to get something up before the festivities turn my parent's house into a zoo (they always do). Happy Holidays, friends! X**


	10. Two Letters and a Siege

**History Buffs Ye Be Warned: My knowledge of the Siege of Boston and Bunker Hill are pretty softcore and my military terminology/understanding of how ranks work is… well… to put it lightly, although I** ** _am_** **plucky and adventury, I am NOT the very model of a modern Major General. Inaccuracies abound, but hopefully they are entertaining!**

Word of my ambition spread like a wildfire after Andre left. Fighting past my first real wound was the hardest task to ever befall me, but I had little knowledge of what awaited me in Boston. The city seemed tolerable, at first. Large, crowded, a maze of winding streets that was nothing like the rural landscape that I preferred, but similar enough to New York that I knew what to expect. The raise in my pay enabled me to rent out a tiny room of my very own, far away from the discomforts of the barracks. Indeed, I believed that this small emblem of my advancement in the ranks from a nameless cadet to a commissioned lieutenant meant that my dreary days of training had reached an end. I even had a small platoon of new recruits who looked to me for answers and protection! But every one of these indications that I was heading towards smoother waters lost their worth only two days after my arrival in the city.

The letters were first; two seemingly insignificant notes that had been slipped beneath my door while I was away. The larger of them was from General Howe. I normally would have committed my full attention to it, but the telltale seal in royal blue wax on the back of the smaller letter diverted me. I traced the indention of the swan in flight and thought of how joyful Sylvia must have been to receive the composition that I had included for her in my most recent message. I cleared my writing desk of its clutter, namely, several rotations of the underclothing that I wore beneath my uniform and had been too busy (and lazy) to wash. This was done to make room for my violin's case while I played. Certainly, Sylvia would respond to the song that I had written for her with a song that she had written for me! Once the seal was broken, I found only a collection of words that pierced my heart with more ferocity and precision than any weapon ever could.

 _Cadet Bordon,_

 _There is no easy way to inform you of my recent change of heart, but what may seem sudden at first was at work from the beginning of our courtship. It is no secret that you and I were ill-matched, and that Papa only asked that we attend the ball together so that all four of his daughters would have a gentleman to dance with. Everything that followed after that night is irrelevant and must be expunged from our memories. While there are many other considerations that played into this decision, sheer incompatibility is the reason why this letter shall be the last of our exchanges._

 _I was recently offered a proposal of marriage from a gentleman of my father's choosing. Well, I suppose he was of my choosing, too, because I accepted. It would be not only respectful, but proper for you to refrain entirely from writing to an engaged woman. Given where you come from, I doubt that you understand this and hopefully, hearing it from me will allow it to fully register in your mind. These words are painful to write on my end and I can only imagine how dreadful they must be for you to receive. But we must persevere. Compatibility, as you know, is mysterious. I did not expect such an agreement was in the making between Colonel Tarleton and my father. Nor did I believe that any woman would be a match for him besides Celeste._

 _I pray that these same wonderous forces weave their way into your life, too, and that you find a woman who is content with your lack of ambition and accomplishments._

 _Your Friend,_

 _Sylvia_

I couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. Silence was usually my solace but this time, it meant that I was alone with the pounding of my suffering heartbeats. The fire across the room grew in volume as it began to blaze. I took the letter and rolled it between my hands like dough. The ink smudged against my sweating palms, the paper warped into a nearly unrecognizable blob. Perhaps by destroying her words before they had time to sink in, they would never affect me. I would be able to return to the state that I was in before reading those words- those words that couldn't possibly have been written by Sylvia! I considered unraveling the letter and comparing what was left of her penmanship to an earlier note. Forgery from either her father or Nora was a possibility, especially if certain events came to light. But were either of them truly wicked enough to include the tidings of a false proposal? To Banastre Tarleton, of all people?!

When Sylvia told me that she loved me, I saw the truth of her words in her eyes. The admiration that she felt for me since childhood made perfect sense because I had watched it grow. I simply didn't have a name for it until at last she told me that it was love. Beyond words, I had felt nothing but raw honesty in her embrace, complete elation in her kiss and passion that had been perfectly tailored for _my_ body and _my_ soul those three glorious occasions that we became one. Banastre cheapened intimacy by treating it as nothing more than an indulgence. The thought that he would be the one to rename Sylvia, to possess her and to inevitably dishonor their marriage by laying with the first woman that he could find when Sylvia was out of sight sickened me. As rage built up inside of me, I threw the remains of the letter into the fire before I had time to make my comparison and learn whether or not it was as fraudulent as I had hoped it might be.

The tavern beckoned. I payed no mind to Howe's letter and kept it on my desk for later perusal. For now, my only objective was to find the strength to lace up my boots, walk several blocks and pour enough ale down my throat to rid my mind of Sylvia, my one and only love, bound forever to that adulterous imp. My single window, which usually overlooked a peaceful cobblestone street, sprung to life with a brilliant flash that filled even the darkest corner of the nearby alleyway. A sudden bang followed, trailed quickly by a barrage of cannon fire. The alter-ego that I had met during the ambush propelled my sluggish, heartbroken form into action. I grabbed hold of my musket and raced, bootless, down the stairs and into the street. It didn't take long to find my company, a good ten of whom were in my platoon. Each man bore a look of bewilderment and fear as they prepared to fire back at the ranks of rebels that were growing in levels in the outskirts of the city. They seemed to wait for my order to fire and even asked me, of all people, what was happening.

"I believe," I started, giving my men the most logical answer that I could find, "they are trapping us in the city."

If General Howe's letter had taken precedence over Sylvia's, I would have understood why everyone was suddenly so dependent on my judgement and knowledge (or rather, lack thereof). Furthermore, if the siege was my first test, then I had already fallen behind the clock and was tragically failing every question. The absence of my commander during this massive rebel uprising eventually made me desperate for answers that could only be found through the written word. I returned home some hours later with the unsettling knowledge that my men and I were now hostages. All that I could do was wait for whatever tactic Howe was devising- and wallow in the deep waves of anguish that Sylvia Ballard had carelessly thrust me into. Opening the second life-altering letter that had been delivered to my door on that fateful day would put more weight on my shoulders than I knew I had the capacity to hold. Nevertheless, I tore into it for the sake of remaining informed.

 _Lieutenant Bordon,_

 _I apologize for my shortness with you the other day. Your promotion from cadet to a commissioned officer is a rarity, yes, but it was the result of the courage and leadership that you demonstrated during the ambush in New York. The willingness that you showed me towards your new assignment, having just arrived in Boston with an only passably healed wound, did not go unnoticed. Both Captain Greer and myself are impressed and frankly, elated to see such eagerness from a young loyalist. Captain Greer has requested that you serve as his second. This will make you not only responsible for your platoon, but the entire company in the event of a conflict. In addition, he would like your name to remain under consideration for future promotions. This is a great honor but also a tremendous responsibility. In short, it means that I will be watching you closely during your time in Boston._

 _Do not disappoint me,_

 _General William Howe_

I no longer wanted ale, I required it! Everyone else had retreated into their homes, some into the tavern, and the entire city was shaken and confused. I allowed the weight of my new responsibilities to crush the pain that Sylvia had left me with. I didn't want to sit around and wait for some order, I wanted to speak to either Captain Greer or General Howe. Or, at the very least, I longed to simply gain some sort of a connection with the other men in my company. It's curious, really, how a crisis strips a man of his indifference. Perhaps it was merely my new title that prompted me to speak with the others and learn their opinions. We did not feel the full impact until the Spring transitioned into Summer. My days were committed to my work. I thought of Sylvia, but only in the quiet of the night. Even if I had been able to write to the Ballards or to Banastre, my letters would have been halted before they could leave the city. Our decline into starvation and shortage of provisions did not go unnoticed by the Crown and we were supplied by sea. But the conditions that we lived under were dire and by June, Captain Greer and I received a much welcome call to fight the rebels formally.

I remained close to him on brief voyage from the harbor to Breed's Hill. Unsurprisingly, he talked while I listened. I knew that my instincts were likely to take over any of the knowledge of warfare that I had acquired and that my mind would soon be frantically searching for any final, pleasant memory of the woman who had broken my heart.

"General Howe thought it best to keep this from ye," the spidery Captain told me as we sat adjacent to one another, "but I will likely be returning to Scotland before the year runs out."

I nodded respectfully over the top of my musket. He could see even in the darkened hull that I was shaking in fear and he gave me a slight smile that I was undeserving of. "You will be dearly missed, Sir," I managed to whimper.

"The company will be under your command. Something pleasant for ye to think upon today..." He could tell that this conversation was doing more harm than good and in the name of pressure, he continued to taunt me. "It has a rather charming ring to it, don't ye think? 'Captain Bordon'. I bet your lassie back home would be impressed!"

Slowly, a drew in a deep breath of air and thanked Captain Greer for his words of encouragement. Although it was clear to me that the notion of titles and accomplishments would not bring Sylvia back to me. Nor would it keep me alive in the impending battle.

 **Another shortie. Having the drama with Sylvia, the Siege of Boston AND Bunker Hill all in the same chapter would have been overkill, so this is where I chopped it. Stay tuned! X**


	11. The Sacrifice

_To die, is to be banished from myself,_

 _And Silvia is myself; banished from her,_

 _Is self from self- a deadly banishment!_

 _What light is light, if Silvia be not seen?_

 _What joy is joy, if Silvia be not by-_

 _Unless it be to think that she is by,_

 _And feed upon the shadow of perfection?_

 _Except I be by Silvia in the night,_

 _There is no music in the nightingale._

 _Unless I look on Silvia in the day,_

 _There is no day to look upon._

 _She is my essence, and I leave to be,_

 _If I be not by her fair influence_

 _Fostered, illumined, cherished, kept alive._

-William Shakespeare (1593)

On the night that I enlisted, Banastre gave me a title that I would never forget: "disposable income". His lectures, for lack of a better word, rang true and I had come to accept that I was only a single note in a massive symphony. If I were to fall, every other working part of this masterpiece known far and wide as "the greatest army in the world" would continue to thrive without me, without even noticing that I was gone. The cause that I was fighting for was of greater importance than my comfort and ultimately, my own life. This, too, was the case for everyone in my company. But I made a silent vow to myself and every man in my platoon that I would be a commander who was more reliable and compassionate than Banastre ever was. Therefore, the importance that I staked on my own survival fell shy of the importance that I staked on theirs. With no Sylvia to fear for me and no Sylvia to feel the single, inconsequential tremor of my sacrifice, I had nothing to lose and was prepared to lay my life down at any time during the battle.

We were in the second wave. Most of the men in the frontline had trained with me in New York and it sent a shiver down my spine to know that my talents were on reserve for after theirs had failed. Our battlefield was a sloping oceanside hill full of loose soil and hidden rocks that could only be seen jutting out of the earth the moment before they snagged our boots and robbed us of our balance. At high noon, the sun had dispersed an even blanketing of light over the bay, but by the three o' clock hour when the first shot was fired, disorienting glares bounced of the rolling waters and into our eyes. Watching how the other commanders used the alarmingly hostile terrain to their advantage was a lesson in and of itself. Captain Greer told me where to go and I merely redirected his orders once we were in motion. When he told me to break off and lead my platoon to fire behind a natural buffer, I could only obey, but it was clear to him that I was terrified.

"I'll keep an eye on ye as best I can," he assured me, the cruel sting of indifference in his voice. And we parted.

I ordered my men to duck and position their rifles against the rocks. The formation that I had placed them in was dreadful, scattered and unorganized. While they remained out of sight, I scanned the field for other lieutenants so that I might follow their examples. They kept low, lower than I, but I was so enamored with the notion of being "heroic" that I was steadfast on my commitment to put my life on the line. My first mistake was willingly stepping out into the clearing for a better look. The miscalculation that would prove detrimental was ordering my men to fire out of panic when I believed I had been spotted. We took out several unsuspecting rebels, but attracted a swarm of forty or more militiamen once our location was compromised. Captain Greer saw our peril from several hundred yards away and ordered a retreat. He could not come to our assistance, having been dealt an even larger hand of combatants. I blocked my men as best I could, but could not prevent three souls from being gunned down as they fled. One took a shot to the femoral artery and bled out in the white sand, the second never saw his end coming and was gone before he hit the ground, dead from a musket ball that tore through the back of his skull.

Guilt strangled me from the inside. Those two young men, whose souls were just as intricately formed by the hand of God and whose minds were just as complex as my own, had died because of me. The third victim of my negligence was curled up on the ground, clutching with quivering limbs to a gaping abdominal wound. I stood above my fallen comrade, ready to defend him until all my strength was spent. In the distance, I could see Greer. He waved his arms and shook his head, but I remained even though he clearly did not condone my valiant, but stupid, decision.

The rebels opened fire at the others who were rushing in to defend my lost platoon. It was in this moment that their shots grew sparse. They had run out of ammunition and we had just enough to bring them down. One broke free from his line to come after me, he must have seen the faint limp that my latest injury had left me with because it was my injured knee that he struck first. I fell over top of the man who I was defending, shielding him with my back. I managed to whisper several words of comfort before noticing that his eyes had gone sightless and his face had gone cold. There would be no saving him. With a yell, I drew my pistol and fired three shots of vengeance for each man I had lost into the young rebel's chest. I remember watching him fall. His dark eyes, light complexion and limp strands of mousy brown hair almost seemed familiar to me. For all I knew, we had grown up in the same town, perused the rows at the same market and crossed one another on the streets a hundred times before this tragic encounter.

The longer I looked upon the two crumpled bodies at my feet, the more overwhelmed I became by the terrors of combat. My vulnerability did not go unnoticed and a parade of footsteps drew in to end me. I loaded and fired, again and again, keeping my eyes from focusing on those who I shot down. A slice into my shoulder disarmed me, a second kick to my faulty knee brought me to the ground and a violent, noisy rip of a bayonet passing from my chest to gut debilitated me entirely. Stunned and cold, I dropped to form a triangle on the beach with the corpse of the rebel that I had killed and the recruit that I had failed to save. It was impossible to tell the origin of my deepest wound; my blood was spilling in every direction. My hands numbed, my muscles weakened and still, I clutched my broken breast with all my might, thus preventing myself from hemorrhaging. Breathing became a struggle, panic took over and my heartrate inclined into a buzz. I had no way to count the passage of time, no way of knowing if the feet that passed over the top of me belonged to a friend or a foe. It would have been welcome for anyone on either side to put me out of my misery like a useless, injured beast. No such mercy ever came.

A dizzying contrast between the warmth of the sun and the cool breeze of the ocean surrounded me. The bits of my flesh that were exposed burned and chilled simultaneously. All that I could do was tremble and breathe quick, broken breaths. By the time that Captain Greer located me, my shaking had nearly subsided and my breathing had turned shallow.

"Ye crazy little bastard," he lifted me up in his arms without so much as a grunt and carried me towards a wagon wherein several other wounded men awaited medical attention, "I was expecting to find a dead man!" As he strode away to find any others, I gripped the edge of his sleeve. I wanted to apologize for the lives that had been lost at my expense, but my tongue was flimsy and drier than sandpaper. "New Jersey, aye?" I must have nodded or given some indication that he was correct. "The ship is heading south. I know it may feel like ye let me down, but ye exceeded all of my expectations today," he gave my hand a quick squeeze before leaving, "Godspeed, Captain Bordon."

The harder I fought against the dark invasion of death, the more my body seemed to succumb to it. My senses had failed me in New York like the flame on a wick that has been denied oxygen. This time, however, I was present for every moment. The surgeon gave me a small, narrow panel of wood to sink my teeth into. He then proceeded to sew my chest shut before the sails could meet a favorable tide. My body started to convulse, and he called another man to hold me down. Stillness was not an option and the life that remained within me found new ways to escape. My vision distorted into a skyward smear as my eyes rolled back into my head.

"This one is done for," the surgeon droned, hardly caring whether I had heard, "bring me a man I can save."

I fought to regain my vision, but no avail. The surgeon's shadow passed from behind the backlit screen of my loosely shut eyes. He was in the process of moving on to a more promising case. But the other man remained. "I can pray with you, Sir," said he, "Or bring you anything within reason to aid your passing."

A tear slinked from each of eye. They slid down my temples and into my hair. "Sylvia," I whispered to the sails as they unfurled and covered the sky with white. "Oh, what I would give to see my Sylvia one last time." I then fell into a strange paralysis. My body must have died, but my mind was still alive. My companion placed his hand on my cooling forehead, it was burned so hotly, it could have been a brand. He paused for a quick prayer. My arms were slack and weighted, but he pulled them from my sides and across my core, laying both of my hands over the wound that had been given up on.

"Fear not, my friend, you will be going home to Sylvia soon." His fingers fell as softly as snowflakes on my eyelids, but he soon suspended all motion. He must have seen the consciousness in my eyes for just then, a newborn tear caused me to blink. He placed my hands back on the table and continued the surgeon's stitch.

"What did I tell you earlier, Boy?" A nameless shadow growled from across the way, "Don't bother making them pretty. Give them a quick prayer if they want it and toss them overboard. We need to make room before we sail."

The stubborn young man continued his work, "This man is still alive! And as long as he breathes, I will do my best to keep him with us." His eyes, so brown they were almost black warmed with a smile. "Tell me about Sylvia."

My tears must have grown. Involuntarily, I blinked to clear the lenses of my eyes. I had to remind myself how to breathe. The boy had nearly given up on hearing my answer, when I finally made an effort to speak again, "She would have been my wife. I would have built a shelter around her with my bare hands and showered her with all the love in my heart until my dying day. She had this gift, you see…"

"A gift?"

"Yes. She could turn silence into music just as easily as you and I can form breath into words. And her music captured every emotion the human heart has ever held. Every secret, every fear, from the thresholds of agony to the very pinnacle of rapture. She would map them out with such artistry in her compositions. She was not of this world," my chest heaved, fighting against the sob that was building against its walls, "I love her. She destroyed me. But I love her." I could feel the pressure of my aching heart against my stitches. The pain was blinding, but all that I could do was wait until the hurricane within me passed and I found rest.

The voyage to New York masqueraded as an elongated dance with death. Even when the waters grew smooth and the ship sailed into the harbor, I continued to fight and tremble beneath my blanket. My wound was bound more skillfully after I was carried ashore. But this second surgery would be a greater trial than the first. In the early hours of the morning, they stripped me of my uniform, my blood and sweat-stained underclothes and any ounce of decency that I had left. Normally, I would have felt shy and craved coverage, but my mortal form was no longer my own. It now belonged to the men who were trying to save it. A lantern's golden glow illuminated this gruesome battle. The hotness of my blood seemed to sear each inch of frigid flesh that it touched. My convulsions, the only response to the pain that I could make, grew beyond what they had been the first time that I succumbed. Several pairs of strong arms tried to restrain me. Somehow, at the peak of my misery, I felt the divine presence of peace.

"Get her out of here!" A hollow voice echoed from all around me. "She should not be seeing this!"

The voices and shadows quarreled and blurred into one another. I wouldn't have been able to understand what was being said even if my senses were intact. But the soft touch of callused fingers against my hand eased my seizing, exposed body into stillness.

"Breathe with me, Sweetheart," Sylvia lilted, "slowly. Deeply. Like a waltz."

Every other sound in the room vanished. I could hear only us, breathing in perfect unison. Surely, this was only a dream. The flesh and tissue beginning at my breastbone and ending just beneath the center of my abdomen were joined. All other aspects of my recovery were dependent on what happened in the deep realm of slumber that Sylvia had delivered me to. I could feel her hand in mine for all the hours that followed. Sometimes, our breathing would fall out of sync and she would speak to me and bring me back to life. Other times, my heart would stampede over the comforting sound of our singular breath. I finally broke out of my empty dream at the end of one of those episodes.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the onlooking moon. The chair that she must have been seated in during the days of uncertainty following my arrival was pushed away. She knelt on the floor at my bedside. Her hair hung freely over her shoulders and onto the sheets in careless whirlpools of gold. The ruffles and lace that she usually wore had been traded for a plain, brown dress. Likewise, I had been given a pair of unrecognizable bedclothes that fit far too snugly across my throbbing chest. A distinctly mournful sound passed through her lips but was stifled by my hand, which she had pressed between both of hers as if in prayer. Sylvia was crying- for me. I called her name and her round face, reddened and damp with tears appeared from over the horizon that our hands made.

"Don't cry," I longed to give her a smile, but everything, even the small task of drawing in air pained me, "let us make this a cheerful dream." She froze like a tearful statue, both of us seemed unsure of what to say or do to one another, even in this fantasy. "Oh, but how could I possibly be cheerful? So many dead. Everyone I knew- every man I trained with in New York is gone and I-"

"-I know," Sylvia's free hand shot into the air. Hearing of my brush with death was torture for her, even now as she beheld me in such a pitiful state. "I never thought that I would see you again. And after you arrived the other night from Boston, I," the usual musicality of her voice frayed and broke like a golden rope under too much pressure, "I don't know what I would have done."

I'll admit it was comforting to hear that she still cared for me. But I found that I could not look at Sylvia without recalling her betrayal. "Why be so gentle with me as I lay here in June and so harsh with in April when I was only beginning to break? The response that you gave to my letter broke my heart." My breath cut out, my grip on her hand loosened, but she tried with all her might to pull me back down to earth, so that I might hear the truth before blacking out again.

"I was a symbol of virtue to my father," she stroked my forehead, searching my eyes for the tenacious man that I used to be, "when he learned that I had let him down, he grew vengeful and cruel. I wrote that letter with him standing over my shoulder. He whispered the words in my ear and I obliged. I ran away and tried so hard to find you. The siege built an impenetrable wall around Boston that my letters could not break through. But that is no excuse for how deeply I must have hurt you." Her eyes plummeted like two brilliant emeralds to my hand as it continued to quiver weakly in her grasp, "You needn't cling to me anymore, my love. Say the word and I will be gone. But please, please hang tightly to this world."

I tilted my head back as far as it could go without snapping. The magnitude of this conversation multiplied beneath the physical hell that I was going through. My body felt as though it was being shredded to pieces and reassembled with every breath, every sob that it produced against my will. Sylvia did not leave me once. She simply muttered a soft apology for every moment of despair that passed me by.

"Why?" I asked desperately before the approaching darkness had the opportunity to take me far away from her again, "Why did you run away from home? Your perfect life, your father, your sisters… Banastre?" She looked so uncertain, as though she believed that by giving me the truth, she would also destroy me. "Tell me!"

"This is my home now," she smiled through her tears, "As long as I help to heal the wounded and pray for forgiveness every day, I have a roof over my head and a place to play my music. Pastor Benson is a kind man. He shows mercy towards pregnant girls when others do not." Carefully, as though my hand were made of thin, dampened paper, she guided it around the circumference of her slightly rounded abdomen. "I ran away to make a better life for our child, Sweetheart. One of my own devices and funded by my compositions."

"Our child?" Although I may have inhaled joy upon this reveal, I exhaled nothing but grief. "You wish to raise our child alone?"

"If not with you, then yes. Alone. Any other man would be a false father. Please believe me when I say that I was never unfaithful to you. I accepted no proposal, it was decided without my consent. I can only imagine the cruel words that my father must have forged for you. As for Banastre, I fled before he and I could even discuss his supposedly 'selfless sacrifice' to wed me."

"But why?" I asked, thinking only of the future that Sylvia would be condemned to after the infection that was surely building in my bloodstream took me. "He is a gentleman of great ambition and you, you are a grand lady!" Her expression grew sour to hear her father's term. So, I forged one that she would not only understand, but appreciate. "You are a swan."

I earned a small laugh from Sylvia, but she quickly grew pensive. "I suppose that is what makes swans such curious animals. You can remove them from their partner's side long before they pass away, but neither swan will ever take another mate. They only love once."

"What a cruel arrangement." I found the strength to raise her hand to my lips and kiss the ridges of her knuckles, but darkness soon followed, and my picture of Sylvia grew dim. "Take my house in New Jersey. I was born there and grew up climbing that silly tree that you fell out of, remember? It is a fine home to raise a child and will be a warm and comfortable place for you to pen your compositions. You will no longer have to live in this grim church, surrounded by death. I wish that I could leave you with so much more, but that is all that I can give to you, my love."

Defiance was what I expected to receive as I started to give in. But Sylvia did not defy me at all. She drew near, avoiding my injuries as best she could and was simply present. She fought away the urge to cry with as much fortitude as it had taken me to remain alive from the moment my life began to spill out on the beach to now, this final reckoning.

"Let go," Sylvia whispered with all of her gentle strength, "Let go of this frightening, confusing world and find the peace that you have earned for yourself. You needn't fight anymore."

She continued to speak to me, permitting my surrender and promising that she would love me despite my absence. The same all-encompassing paralysis that I experienced the first time that I was severed from my mortal form set in. The moon, the church and the sweet presence of selfless Sylvia all vanished. I marveled at the emptiness, the deafening silence that semmed too lofty and distant to be experienced until the end of one's life. But what I did not know was that this was merely a place that my soul had escaped to while the rest of me warded off death. By letting go, I was closer to recovering and returning to Sylvia than I realized.


	12. A Girl Worth Fighting For

Sylvia was dreaming when I awoke. Her breath rolled over my face and neck like a mountain stream. The sweet strands of air that passed through her lips scouted out the patches of sweat on my flesh and cooled them. Her ivory hands had frozen weightlessly, mid-stroke upon my nightshirt. One hand kept watch over my beating heart, the other over my intake of air and despite the deepness of her sleep, Sylvia was so careful with her touch that she never settled into me, but levitated above where I had been sewn closed like a ragdoll. I could not disturb her, only admire her angelic beauty as she slept.

We were apart for only two months and the time that we spent away from one another brought challenges that might have pulled us even further apart. Instead, they seemed to have brought us together. I had woven in and out of consciousness throughout the night and heard fragments of her conversation with God. Sylvia believed that my deliverance from war-ravaged Boston was a blessing and that our suffering- mine from my wounds and hers from the loss of her family, acted as penance for us both. She could fend for herself, of that I was certain. Yet I wanted nothing more than to ease her pain and bridge the gap that separated Sylvia from her charmed life back in New Jersey.

An older man, convivial, with graying hair and a cheerful expression entered the room and all at once, we were no longer alone. He approached Sylvia with every intention of nudging her shoulder and awakening her, but I defended her peace.

"She didn't rest at all last night," I whispered, my tongue sticking to the corners of my parched mouth as I spoke, "I could hear her praying until her voice finally tapered out around dawn."

Still smiling, his hand dropped to his side and he let her be for the time being. "I would send her upstairs, to bed. But she would only…"

"Play her violin." Our simultaneous drone concluded with light laughter.

On the windowsill, there sat a stone pitcher of water that had cooled overnight against the glass. The man didn't have to ask me to know that I required a drink and prepared one right away. "You have known Miss Ballard long?" He asked.

"Since I was fifteen. So, that would make her around seven when we first met." Stroking her hair seemed to keep her from awakening as I took in a few pivotal sips of water. "Thank you."

"Seven. How precious. I assume she was even more of a scoundrel back then?"

"If you wish to put it modestly, then 'scoundrel' will do," I could feel Sylvia's weight begin to shift above me and I hushed her as best I could, "you are Pastor Benson, aren't you? Ah. Then you must know about the predicament that Sylvia is in."

"Predicament? No. A trial, yes, but not a predicament," he crouched quietly alongside my sleeping angel. "Did you know that she has written over 400 pieces in her lifetime? Seven of which were composed during her stay in _my_ church? And counting! She has both the stamina and the talent of Mozart!" I smiled to hear this comparison again. "What the Lord presents to this child as a reeking, steaming pile of steer manure," Pastor Benson threw up his hand, startling me, "I didn't curse. I said 'manure'… she spins through that pretty little noggin of hers until she is left with threads of gold. Say, that would make a spectacular bedtime story! Of course, it would have to be constructed of plot points that are more pleasant than brains and cow shit. I know, I'm absolutely vile. God made me that way and He loves me, regardless. But you follow, yes?"

Either I was still dreaming, or I was conversing with the world's most nonchalant pastor. His unusualness put me at ease. Sylvia's homesickness would surely be worse if the man who was temporarily fostering her was tightly wound. "Yes, Pastor Benson. But as extraordinary and self-sufficient as Miss Ballard is, the thought of her going through life without her father and sisters pains me deeply. She should go back to New Jersey. Even if her return means the commencement of her marriage to that… that…"

"Mind your tongue, Soldier," Pastor Benson snapped, showing his serious side for the first time, "you are in God's House!"

As Sylvia nuzzled closer to my shoulder, the volume and travel distance of her breaths shortened. My voice lowered to a whisper, "I only want what is best for her and what is best for her is to be home, with her family."

"You should have thought of that before planting a beansprout in her soybean field!" He gave me a vulgar wink.

Sylvia shifted again. "That doesn't make any sense," she sat upright, patted down a wavy tangle on the side of her head, and reached for my hand, "beansprouts and soybeans are completely different plants. Men are so unbelievably stupid!" The rough skin of my thumb produced a rather unpleasant sound as it scratched against her dainty wrist. I removed some pressure, but she encouraged me to continue and even pecked my forehead in greeting. "Stupid, but darling. I'm so happy to see you awake, Sweetheart."

"There are two different kinds of beansprouts," I teased her, "the mung, which is green and tart, and the soybean, which is yellow and sweet. Don't look so stunned. I am a culinary man, remember?"

Her charming, wide-eyed stare moved to Pastor Benson, "He cooked me porridge. Once. It was dreadful."

"Porridge usually is," he confirmed with yet another telling wink, "I had a rather adorable misconception about the origin of porridge's name when I was younger, would you like to hear it?"

Sylvia was intrigued, nay, entranced! She slapped her free hand down on the old man's knee, grinning from ear to ear. "My sister, Celeste had an adorable misconception about the origin of porridge's name, too!"

I couldn't help but find pleasure in her amusement. I was not accustomed to seeing her converse with anyone in such a playful manner. Even Lars. Only I had truly seen her break out of her shell, beginning with the cooking of my 'dreadful porridge'. "Very well, you two" I urged them after taking in another small gulp of water, "let us hear of these… misconceptions."

'Ladies first' clearly didn't apply here. Pastor Benson surprised me, yet again, by cutting off Sylvia's story with his own! "Well, when I was just a lad, living up North on my family's land, it would get so cold in the Winter that nothing grew. When the conditions became so grisly that even bear hunting fell through as an option," he paused while Sylvia and I shared a mutual groan over his obnoxious usage of a pun, "I told you before, my children. I am vile! Where was I? Ah, yes. We would have to rummage through our cabinets for any bit of remaining food and, if we were lucky, we were able to locate the makings for porridge." Not one, but two winks, "It became known as our annual… forage for porridge and my sister and I were naïve enough to think that-"

"-That's ridiculous!" Sylvia shook her head. "Honestly, Pastor Benson. 'Forage for Porridge' is almost as dry as what you told the congregation last week about the hymn, 'Gladly, the Cross I'd Bear'."

"And what was that?" I inquired, fiddling slightly with my empty cup.

"That the hymn isn't about sacrifice at all, but a cross-eyed bear named Gladly!" Sylvia bemoaned. She changed her tone the moment that she started on her 'story', "Now for some proper humor courtesy of, my sister, Celeste." I continued to fidget. If Celeste was as 'compatible' with Banastre as I had heard tell, her jokes were likely to be just as intolerable as his! "We spent the Easter holiday in Philadelphia one year. I was exactly four years of age, because that was the same year that I composed my first melody-"

"-I told you," Pastor Benson whispered, "Mozart…"

"Oh, will you hush! Mozart is overly sensationalized. But I much prefer him to that crook, Salieri, who once forged not four, but five measures of my work! It sticks out like a sore thumb and even repeats itself in different variations throughout that disaster, _La Fuga_! He got off easy, too, thanks to my anonymity. But the day that I come forward about my identity and all of Europe is ablaze with wonder and disbelief that a pleasant little English woman from the colonies could compose music of such-"

"-Porridge, Sylvia." I reminded her as her face turned an angry shade of red. "You were telling us about porridge… and your holiday with your sisters in Philadelphia? Celeste had a funny name for it?"

"Oh, well it wasn't exactly a funny name," her cheeks returned to their usual rosy hue as she gathered her wits, "we stayed in this small inn. Quaint, but very expensive. Or so we thought. We were taking our breakfast in a gorgeous little sunroom that overlooked the Delaware River and Papa informed our server that Celeste could only eat soft foods because she had lost about... goodness, seven or eight of her teeth all in the same year! So, they brought her this rather revolting-looking meal, which turned out to be porridge. I, trying to be witty as usual, called it a 'big bowl of blah'. Papa told Celeste its proper name and she simply asked, 'And was it given such a ghastly name because it was so _poorly_ crafted? Or because it is intended for one with a _poor_ excuse for a palate?' Apparently, this question was of worse taste than my 'bowl of blah' comment, because he whooped her so hard over the table that she lost another tooth and it," she covered her mouth to laugh in her typical, lady-like fashion, "flew into Celine's tea!"

My suspicions were confirmed. What's more is the idea of Banastre and Celeste attending an informal dinner together would be the makings for a plethora of snobbish insults. "I told you before, Darling. It is a blank canvas and can be rather plain when you don't include additional flavoring."

"On the marvelous, marvelous subject of food," Pastor Benson rose and filled my cup with some fresh water, "would you like to try to eat something? Once you get your strength up, Miss Ballard can help you stand up and maybe even walk! Around my… really exciting church." I nodded shyly, and he beamed with unbridled joy. "Perfect! Our menu consists of one item and one item only. Miss Ballard, I'll let you tell him the good news!" With that, the unusual little gray-haired pastor was off like a shot.

Sylvia pulled up her chair and settled in by my side. "He can be a bit much, I know. But he is helping me through a very trying time. And you, too." I escaped into a thoughtful silence, but remained awake for her. "I heard what you told Pastor Benson, about my family and I want you to know that it was for the better. No one should ever have to hide their best self, their truest self beneath a wooden panel in a pantry. I know that you have obligations to fulfill and that everyone in your company is still under siege in Boston. I know that you are going to report again the second that you can stand up again because that is the kind of man that you are. You are brave and committed. I would rather wait here, in this church, to see you once or twice a year than go home and marry _Bloody Ban_." I could see the tears that she was struggling to will away and knew that my silence had caused them. "I don't expect you to marry me. I don't even expect you to write. You owe me nothing."

"You lost your mother young, didn't you?" I finally asked, knowing that my perspective could only be viewed after crossing over challenging ground.

"The day I was born," Sylvia struggled to say, "I was her last."

"We are similar that way, you and I. Did you know that? My father raised me until the Winter that I was thirteen. A fever took him. I floundered around for two years until I earned a steady wage delivering parcels," her smile permitted me to continue, "I had no childhood, Sylvia. None at all. I never told anyone that before." Her walls broke down even more. I grabbed hold of her hand and refused to let go. "You have people in your life who love you. They serve as pillars and lift you high above the pains of the world. Expelling them all for my sake hurts not only you, but our child. Hiding away your love for me and the precious miracle that we created together is as unjust as hiding your music!"

"So, you'd have me return home? To the snootiness, the facades and live the rest of my life under the delusion that I am happy with an arranged marriage-"

"-I'd have _us_ fight for what we want!" I could feel a familiar fire within me beginning to blaze. It was the same emotion that allowed me to transcend my apprehension in battle. "You and I will talk to your father together. I would gladly beg him for your hand everyday until my life is spent. Not only because it is what is honorable, but because it is what is right for us and our family. There is no place for shame in love, Sylvia. I have watched the unrelenting love that I feel for you triumph over fear and doubt, time and again. You have been and always will be worth the fight."

 **So, that was whacky. But Chapters 10 and 11 needed a light little chaser. Badly. And Pastor Benson always delivers. Don't be surprised if the porridge that he brings Boris and Sylvia in the next chapter has a smiley face made out of bacon and eggs- and is "happy to see" them. More on the way! X**


	13. The Months of Trial

Pastor Benson took in six soldiers the night that I arrived. Two recovered fully long before I did while the other three were not so fortunate. I would later learn that the injured who fled Boston after the battle were whisked away to similar establishments. The closer to "terminal" their injuries proved to be, the more likely they were to find themselves in a church. The philosophy behind this decision being that when quality medical attention was no longer on the table, repentance was our only option. I am not saying this to depreciate the care that I received in any way, but merely to reinforce how pivotal Sylvia's role was in the salvaging of my trivial existence. Had she not been there and used her sheer talents of negotiation, I would have been lost forever.

I lived downstairs, in a small holding space that once served as a children's chapel. Its windows were stained and miraculous at a time, but had shattered at the hands of an angry mob several months prior and were resealed with clear glass. Call my tastes mundane, but being able to see the city by day and the moonlit sky by night aided in my recovery by making me feel less bottled up. Sylvia resided in the attic and when all the candlelight was extinguished, and the tiny building fell into dark repose, I could hear her music raining down from above like the light of heaven, itself. Our love renewed itself daily and strengthened into a kinship, the likes of which neither of us had ever known. While we planned on withholding our marriage ceremony until after we had both gained her father's blessing, she became my wife on the most spiritual level by remaining nearby and guiding me through the trying months that followed.

The promising recovery that I was making came to a sudden halt before the end of July. Sylvia and I had worked together on walking again. This was a mundane task, one that I had been through before. It frustrated me greatly to learn that all the effort that I had put into my recovery after injuring my leg was thwarted by the trauma that my body had suffered at Bunker Hill. Thus, is the life of a soldier! My tendency to act independently, which Sylvia could now attribute to my lonesome upbringing, got the better of me several days before the shallower of my stitches were due to be removed.

She was upstairs at the time, laboring over her latest fugue for a string quartet. Her conversation with Pastor Benson and I about Salieri's supposed plagiarism of her work when he penned _La Fuga_ lit a fire under her cute, little British _bum._ When she and I weren't together, creating a fresher and more exciting piece of music was all that mattered to Sylvia. I remained silent on the matter. Not once did I express my keen admiration for Salieri's work nor did I explain how most music is derivative, anyway. Another lesson in biting the bullet, I suppose: thus, is the life of loving a stubborn, unstoppable woman who also happens to be a composer! But I digress.

It is likely that her commitment to this task inspired me to stand and walk without any assistance. I explored my section of the downstairs. Most of it consisted of a duty maze of boxes and crates that had been flipped over onto their sides by a terrible draft that blasted through the dank underbelly of the building. The obscure angling of my bed in the windowed corner made sense to me once I realized how unpleasantly harsh that gust of air was, even in the heat of summer. Sylvia's awareness of my surroundings and her constant fear of me catching a chill were to thank. I meandered a while, feeling some pain, but it was not terrible enough to send me back to bed. My cold, bare feet led me down a familiar hall that Sylvia and I would often take. She would have me sit on a small ledge beneath an arch and I expressed my favoritism for this location on several occasions. While most of the floors in the church were stony and bare, this hall was covered with beautifully constructed rugs. I would wait for her to return from the kitchen with some water for us both and drag my toes across the soft ridges of burgundies and blues. The rugs did not possess purposeful images, but merely shapes that set a nearly juvenile blaze to my imagination. She caught me once, moving my foot up along a jagged triangle that I had deemed a "mountain" and making a small leaping motion before falling into the cerulean "ocean" that it overlooked. I was embarrassed at first, but Sylvia didn't judge. She didn't speak. She only threw off her shoe, sat by my side and ventured into the obscure world that I had created.

I felt pleased with myself for making it this far during my solo walk through the church, but not pleased enough. I decided to go to the kitchen, pour my own glass of water and see how I was feeling afterwards. There was a colorful movement of light across my white bedclothes as I passed the rows of stained glass. My eyes became fixated on this kaleidoscopic spectacle and it wasn't until I entered the plain, candlelit kitchen that I noticed a dark red sprinkling of blood on my shirt. Racing back to bed and assessing the damage was by and large an idiotic idea, but panic is funny that way. The impact of my wobbly sprint caused the most harm. Dressing the ruptures in my barely-healed skin and remaining silent about the incident didn't help me, either.

Let me just say that as our bond strengthened, Sylvia and I experienced a bizarre cognitive synchronization. Or rather, we became two minds- two hearts working as one. On this particular day, our usual knack for making poor decisions had manifested itself.

I wrapped on a fresh bandage and my slipped my one clean shirt over my head, wadded up the fabrics that had been stained with blood and stuck them under my pillow. Sylvia had already convinced Pastor Benson to allow her to remove the stitches when the time was right, and she was always wary of the possibility of small injuries occurring in my sleep. Chatter could be heard upstairs before her arrival. I could even hear Sylvia's high lilt as she joyously conversed with the new arrivals. Choir practice. Sometimes, she would contribute vocally, or even play her violin on the side. But not on this day. Judging by the audible journey that her voice was making throughout the building, I could tell that she was going to pay me a visit, instead. Sure enough, her volume increased- louder and louder until her slender shadow appeared in my doorway.

"I'm off to retrieve the post, Pastor!" She hollered, "I won't be long!" The long, frail limbs of her balletic form materialized before me. She dressed plainly these days, in woolen dresses that possessed not a single ruffle nor intricate embellishment. Her hair, once swooped and twisted high above her swanlike neck now hung in pretty, careless waves down her back and over her shoulders. Anyone who knew her before would have believed her condition to be the outcome of a "riches to rags" scenario, but for me, she was beyond regality. The loveliest flower to ever bloom, free of any and all imperfections would appear as a wilted weed when placed in comparison with my radiant Sylvia. She waltzed in, carrying a deep basin of water that was steaming at the top. After raising her finger over her lips in the universal gesture for "shhhh", she closed and locked the door. "Strip," Sylvia commanded, carrying the bucket to my bedside and wringing out a white cloth that had been floating on the water's edge. "Boris!" She snapped after seeing my hesitation, "Either I am going to assist you with your washing or Pastor Benson will. Now which one would you prefer?"

I looked up at her, discouraged, as I removed the clean shirt that I had only just put on. Meanwhile, Sylvia knelt on the floor and relieved me of my trousers in the most alarmingly aloof manner that a woman has ever done to a man. At least, when said woman and said man possess the same animal magnetism as she and I. I was nearly convinced that this was just another routine washing, like my surgeon had given me several times before when I was too weak to do so for myself. She went about her business as if it were nothing more than a regular task, but the movements that she made with the cloth steadied into a deeply seductive pace when she reached the easily manipulated length between my legs. "Must you get everywhere?" I asked, cursing myself for how effortlessly her caress aroused me.

"Only where it counts," her fist tightened, causing the heat of the cloth to sear into my manhood. She grinned, the warm water was a fine idea, but she would have gained the same response from my deprived body even if she had arrived with a bucket full of freshly thawed ice! "It's maddening, really. Living so close to you and being denied something so essential as touch," she leaned in, brushing her lips across my shoulder and inviting me to rise to my feet.

The choir above us started their rehearsal of a somber dirge as we backed into a nearby wall, "This is a church, Sylvia." Such hypocrisy. Those were my words and yet, I aided her with the removal of her dress and chemise, and quickly fell under the intoxicating spell of her kiss.

"We have done worse," she gasped prettily, tilting her head against the wooden interior of the building that was filled with the resonance of the voices upstairs, "below the window in your home while my father was looking through it comes to mind. Besides, this is a medical procedure. That bayonet went a good half an inch below your belt. And as your future wife, I have every right to make sure that everything is still in working order."

A single thrust laid that nonsensical theory to rest. Her feminine flesh was just as tight and slick as it was on the night that I had first ravished her. Music surrounded us, but we quickly fell into a rhythm of our own. A gentle dance that thrilled me with each beat. My fingers grazed the roundness of her backside before sinking into them, urging her into a more intense union. "My future wife," I purred, beaming at the very thought before rationality stepped in to claim my tongue, "this won't harm the beansprout?"

"Not in the slightest," her forehead found its safe haven on the surface of my breastbone, "it shouldn't harm you, either. Only our morality." As my swan arched her neck, a content sigh passed through her throat and out her grinning mouth.

"I am holding you both," I pondered as the soft swaying of her hips caused her barely pregnant belly to brush against me. "All that I have ever loved, right here in my arms." Her highly successful seduction tactic caused me to forget about what had happened earlier in the minutes of beautiful passion that followed. But I felt the sting in my chest worsen as I raced into an embarrassingly premature climax. She may have started the fire, ignited the dance, but I succumbed to it just as quickly as I had excited. I ignored the pain, pressing her into me until my arms shook. "Sylvia! Oh, Sylvia!" I could feel her faint, breezy laughter passing up my neck and into my hair. _She_ was normally the talkative lover, not I. "Being near you," I continued, to her breathless astonishment, "beholding and possessing you each day with my eyes, but never as completely as I do now has been torturous! I've missed you. I've missed you," I repeated, the forcefulness of these words grew louder with each refrain. They served as my apology for the expediated nature of my performance. I usually lasted much longer. "I've missed you so," I purred as what remained of my vitality overflowed into her warm body.

Still joined to me, she bent inwards for a deep kiss to my mouth. She was careful at first, her light passage across my lips was barely a contact, but fingers quickly became entangled in my damp, chaotic head of hair. Her tongue, warm and friendly urged mine into a slow, melodic waltz. We didn't break out of it until she, too, had rocked her way into satisfaction with our congress. She pulled away several inches from my face, donning the most euphoric expression that I had ever witnessed. Her eyes were shut lightly as though they were producing a pleasant dream, her pink lips, still glittering with the dampness with my kiss, were parted just widely enough for a sigh to escape and her cheeks were overcome by the familiar pinkish hue that I had learned to anticipate. "How can they call something so holy a sin?" She asked, eyes still closed. "Our two souls have loved one another since their creation." I kissed her, it was the only response that I could find to the poetry of her words. "I have missed you, too" she penned a perfectly timed rest mark in our kiss just long enough to say, "I love you."

With the now only mildly warm cloth, Sylvia wiped every inch of my body clean. She even did what she could with my hair with what little resources she had. The bandages came last. I hadn't bled through the fabric, but the protected skin had turned a raw, glistening shade of red under the abrasive pressure of our lovemaking. Sylvia cursed when she saw that many of the stitches had shifted and were now lined with blood, each one a new wound and a possibility for infection.

"There is wine in the kitchen," she thought aloud, pulling a pair of loose-fitting trousers over my legs and then proceeding to fumble into her chemise and dress. "That should keep you nicely sterilized until I can find something stronger and less… sugary."

"Your hair will give you away," I told her, stopping her flight to the door. I was right, too. It looked just as careless and sex-tousled as my own had been before she fixed it. "Come here. I'll do what I can for it." Despite her building concern for my minor injuries, most of which I had inflicted long before she showed up, I couldn't stand to be parted from her just yet. I wanted to touch her, to hold her near for as long as I could. She sat beside me, permitting me several minutes with her feather soft strands of hair. She seemed to find solace, too, in the gruff beard that was growing in along my jawline. It must have felt enticing to her fingers and lips, since she had only ever seen me clean-shaven before. Ultimately, I settled on twisting and pulling her locks over her shoulder and gave up on the minor flyaways towards the top. Which were, in all honesty, adorable.

"I really should get that wine," she whispered, her distress escalating. "This is all my fault, isn't it?"

I held tightly to her hand for just a moment longer. It might have been easier just to tell her about my earlier mistake of walking and even running around the church! But I merely told her, "No, no. We are both to blame. We are partners in crime, after all."

Our intercourse remained a secret between Sylvia, myself and God. But punishment for our imprudence came swiftly. I fell ill during the first week of August and this ailment followed me far into the months of autumn. The wound that had been so close to healing itself formed into a painful poison and the infection that we had feared became our reality. A block of compromised skin in the lower region of my chest was extracted in its entirety. I still have the deep, hideous scar there to this day. After suffering through that surgery, bloodletting was my best and only option. Even after the illness miraculously subsided, I was left weak from the constant controlled bleeding. Sylvia was by my side every day, urging me to move, to stand and eventually walk. She blamed herself, this was clear to me, but she remained admirably composed and strong throughout this mutual trial. When autumn was finally spent, her presence tapered out. The muscle mass that I would have completely lost if it weren't for her tenacity enabled me to move about and heal on my own. But we met somewhere in the middle. My strength inclined and hers declined.

She left the church two months before the birth of our son. I felt so helpless the night that she was taken away, to live in a ward deep within the winding city streets. Her music, which she fought to play even as she lay upstairs in agony, halted itself. I knew before everyone else that something was wrong and ran to tell Pastor Benson. The image of my Sylvia being carried down the steps beneath a driving sheet of rain was too much to bear. I raced from the building like a madman, without my shoes or proper attire and sat beside her in the back of the wagon that she had been laid into flatly, like a beautiful corpse.

"Stay here," her quiet words competed with the pounding of the rain, "go back inside and dry off," Sylvia demanded. I argued with her, unintelligibly. The shock and fear within my heart caused my chest to go numb. I couldn't possibly leave her side! "Boris! You have been nothing but dismal and grim about our fate since your first day of training. That ends now! Go back inside."

I cried like a coward, like a child. Surely, she knew the origin of my fear. Both of our mothers had died in childbirth. Her head was tilted off to the side, I moved my fingers between her cheek and the rough, splintering wood at the terrible wagon's bottom. She opened her eyes only once for me. Glassy and distant, they were ghosts of the brilliant green eyes that were usually so full of laughter and life. Somewhere inside of them, I could see my own fears gazing back at me as distorted reflections. She didn't need to hear my usual words of doubt now, she needed encouragement. I moved past my desire to beg her not to give in, to tell her that I would surely die if she died- and told her instead, "Of all the warriors that I have fought alongside, you are the bravest. You are the strongest. We will be together again soon."

Her hand rose, searching for my own. I closed my fingers around it and she looked so relieved, even by this simple contact. "We will," Sylvia vowed, "all three of us." Her trembling lips formed into a smile. Before I had the chance to kiss them in a soft farewell, she whispered in confirmation, "The Bordons."


	14. Out of Thin Air

I remained in the church, lonely and transparent as a specter. Recovering fully was my only option if I wanted to leave, but worry has a way of stunting physical improvement. I spoke at times, usually just to inquire for Sylvia's condition. Some days, Pastor Benson would give a straight answer. Other days, he simply did not know and would shield his lack of knowledge with humor. But he assured me that he would come if anything had changed. I believed him. He was an enigmatic man, to be sure, and would often contradict himself for the sake of a laugh, but his care for Sylvia and I was genuine. Waiting, praying and making an effort to take care of myself in the dreary moments in between were all that I could do for two whole months.

Some fathers speak of a nameless intuition that beckons them to their partner's side when the perils of labor are upon them. You may think me mad, but my usual paranoia spiked drastically on the bleak January night that our son came into the world. I was fully clothed for the snow and pulling on my boots when the expected knock sounded in frantic intervals on my doorframe. It was not Pastor Benson who came for me. No, there in the flesh was none other than General Ballard, himself. His face was an unsolvable puzzle of emotions. If his presence alone had caused me to shake, the look that he wore threw my nerves into a frenzy. I glimpsed both anger and fear on the surface of his round, beardless face. But I could scarcely place them in a logical order of cause and effect.

He entered immediately, waiting for my invitation seemed superfluous. He must have witnessed the terror in my eyes as I beheld his daughter's violin case that was swinging like a dead man at the end of a noose against his right thigh. No matter how uncomfortable her pregnancy had made her, Sylvia would never be parted from her violin. I wondered what this meant, and he deciphered my curiosity without any difficulty.

"Bring me my violin and Boris," the bald man recited from memory as is strong frame lurched forward. He lifted his left hand out of his pocket and I could have sworn that he was about to strike me across the face. Heaven knows, he had every right to do so, given our current predicament. Instead, he pulled me to my feet by my collar and hovered above me with a nearly calculating glare. We were at such close a close proximity to one another that I could see his eyes looked identical to how Sylvia's had when last I saw her. Cloudy and green, like a distant forest dressed in thick mist. "Everyone is working hard to save her and the baby, in that pigpen of an infirmary" he told me. He still had the stance and appearance of a powerful commander, but his words were as internally tempestuous as his eyes. "She begged for you. Begged! And it became too much to bear. I can't stand to see my daughters in misery. Even after they have broken my heart like Sylvia has. That is what it means to be a parent. You will understand this soon enough."

Aghast and barely breathing, my body worked into a confused bow. The soldier in me wanted to show respect for my superior. The aching soul within me wanted nothing more than to be taken to said infirmary without haste. "General Ballard. How can I help? I will do anything. Anything at all for you and Sylvia!"

His order came in the form of a clamping grasp around the wrist. He did not leave go of me until after we had flown down the icy steps and onto the lawn in front of the homelike, red church. The snow was knee deep in some parts and growing, there would be no returning by morning. Instead of speaking, we trudged. General Ballard in front and I, several paces behind. The city streets had vacated themselves in the wake of the blizzard. Windows were shut, wagons and stands belonging to vendors had sought shelter beneath the many pavilions on the street. Most of them had snapped beneath the pressure of the heavy accumulation. We had to remain vigilant to avoid both the ice and the structural ruins that were hidden deep beneath the snow. I slipped and fell more times than I would like to admit. All the layers of dirty and mismatched clothes beneath my coat were completely drenched before our dreadful expedition across the foreign, stark white landscape was through. One fall was particularly hard on me and I required the General's assistance to stand upright again.

"Boris, if for any reason, I should lose my daughter tonight" he told me, his voice quivering and rushed, "I need you to know how deeply you disappointed me. But I do not hate you. I was angry when I forced Sylvia to write that letter."

"Can we just keep walking?" I asked, shivering in the cold and using my frustration with the clearly distraught General to find my traction on the slippery ground.

"No," he grumbled, holding me upright, "I need you to take responsibility for what you have done to Sylvia, and I need to make peace with you for what you have done to me. I need to know that at least one of my grandchild's parents will be present." Needs. Demanding rather than suggesting was a common trait amongst the Ballards. If I were to deny him any of those needs, he would surely resort to Banastre for an easy fix. He read that thought with as little effort as Sylvia required to play a simple passage of music on her violin. "Tarleton is no longer involved, Boy. Everything rests on your shoulders now."

"I love your daughter, Sir." I told him, simply, "I am fully committed to her and to our child," as ever, my humiliating disposition to be moved to tears by anything and everything involving Sylvia overtook me. Little did I know that if it had not been for that glaze of vulnerability in my eyes, General Ballard would not have been able to see through his fear for his daughter and his aggravation with having to retrieve me, and glimpse my sincerity. "I beg you. Please. Take me to her."

I listened hard for Sylvia as we worked our way through the filthy ward. The space was cavernous, blanched and housed a family of noises ranging from tame conversations between doctors and their patients to the earsplitting howls of poor souls, suffering to remain inside their dying bodies. It was difficult for me to believe that my beloved was better off in this torture chamber, this battleground than where she had resided before. The church had its creaks and groans, yes, and Pastor Benson had a special talent for grating on anyone's nerves after a while, but looking back on the emptiness that I felt after she was torn from my side, at least I had the pleasantries of our humorous pastor and the lullaby of the practicing choir to soothe me when I felt like giving in. Sylvia craved the musicality of life and was instead surrounded by the preceding screams and concluding nothingness of death.

Her midwife greeted General Ballard and I as we neared Sylvia's designated corner in a long row of beds. The room's capacity had been reached long ago and the only privacy that we had been offered was an old, opaque screen that rattled whenever anyone walked past it. I sought her out, but could only see a large stack of new hat and dress boxes peeking around the corner. They were lovely, pastel in color and nearly identical to the ones I used to deliver to the Ballard Estate. Clearly, the General had fallen back into his old habits of purchasing gifts for his beloved daughter. Even after she had "betrayed" him.

We were informed of her condition before proceeding and I caught only a fraction or two of the knowledgeable old midwife's reasoning. Before General Ballard had left, the earlier concerns that brought Sylvia to the facility in the first place were in full force. In short, Sylvia was a very small woman and the baby had grown to a large, healthy size. This was good news, but was shadowed by the possibility of innumerable complications. Both of their lives hung in the balance and this mortified me.

"After you left," the stout little redheaded woman explained, "I performed a minor surgical procedure to widen the opening, which was uncommonly small before, and this allowed the baby to crown-"

"-Oh!" my well-meaning apprehension caused me to interrupt her. I was of the impression that every bit of information that I could offer would be helpful. I merely embarrassed myself, instead. "Sometimes it is challenging with Sylvia, intimately, because there is this certain… tightness about her. You know… anatomically speaking? Even though I have been with her more than once. Oh, and once after I… impregnated her, too." General Ballard looked as though he had been whacked clean across the face with the flat blade of an oar. "Is that common? Have I done anything wrong?" I wrung my shaking hands in front of my chest like a guilted mouse.

"Your lack of experience with the fairer sex very well may be your saving grace," General Ballard gave me a passive-aggressive groan before responding to Sylvia's caregiver. "Is that all, ma'am? May I please, _please_ see my daughter now?"

It only took one look at Sylvia to know that she was a stronger contender than the anguish that she was going through. Her head and shoulder blades sunk deep into her white cot. Every few seconds or so, her breast would heave, forcing her sweating chest skyward. She produced no real sound and had resolved to an almost martyr-like silence. I didn't want her to be like the other wretched, hollering patients that surrounded us, but she was Sylvia! Boisterous little Sylvia who always made her presence known to everyone around her. She hadn't seen us enter, her eyes were closed too tightly for that. As my emotions swelled, I called her name and she gave me what I sought. A tiny, gut-wrenching whimper passed through her lips and, instinctively, General Ballard and I moved to either side of her as she lay swimming against a mighty current of excruciating pain.

We remained there as two pillars of strength and hands to hold when she needed us. That was all that we could be. I had seen more than my share of injuries and knew what it felt like to be pushed to the precipice of defeat by my wounds. I touched the sweat-drenched boundary where her forehead became her flaxen hair. Normally, she would have acknowledged me and tilted her head into my hand, but she did not. I wanted so immensely to relieve her of her misery, to take her pain and make it my own. But she was far more valiant than I. She didn't need restraints, she did not convulse, like I had. Her willfulness kept her from capsizing onto the bedsheets. In grabbing her hand, I thought that perhaps I could keep her from drowning. Again, she was too far away for any such interaction.

"What can I do?" I pleaded, waiting for her fingers to lock in a tight grip around mine. Seconds scraped by like hours. She seemed to respond only to the requests to push. Her complexion shifted from the pinkish hue that it had been to mauve and from there, it drained entirely. "What can I do? I want to help her!"

"Sylvia," the midwife, that perfect stranger at the foot of the bed who she seemed to trust more than her father and I coaxed her firmly, "you cannot stop. You must fight through it."

What began as a broken cry turned into the first words that Sylvia had muttered all night. She turned away from me and in desperation, clung to her father. Her hands climbed up his forearm several inches. "Help me," she wept in a chilling timbre that sliced into my heart like a sharpened wedge of ice, "Help me!"

The General knew that he could not intervene in any way and that we were watching her fight from a different plane of reality. I, however, was not so wise. Her grip failed, she sunk back into her pillow and the mood shifted entirely. All of her strength had been spent, it seemed, leaving her empty and helpless at the most pivotal moment of her labor.

A demand for the General came next from the midwife, "If she stops pushing, she jeopardizes the baby's life and her own. You have to let her know this."

I wanted to ask what was happening, but I knew, better than anyone else in the room, perhaps. Sylvia hadn't given in, she was merely paralyzed, and I could tell that she was watching herself from the outside, just like I had when I surrendered to my wounds after battle. I left her side and gravitated towards the source of her pain.

The revelation struck me so hard when he came into my view, it could have knocked me to the ground. I was no longer responsible for easing Sylvia's pain. I had to reach her so that we could finish what we had started together. I recalled the first morning that I had awoken with her by my side, those nine months ago. She told me that by giving her my body to caress, torment and shape into her very own lover, I had planted an inspiration within her that she had been lacking all along. Her compositions would benefit, mature and become whole in places where they had not been before, simply by casting our innocence aside. This child had developed within her from nearly nothing like a piece of music. I had left her with, not only inspiration, but a precise image of how I looked and acted from birth and let me assure you, this little boy become more and more like me, his father, with every passing moment.

I brushed my tears aside and tried my best to describe to her what I was seeing, so that way she would be reminded of why she was there, enduring such hell. He was barely in this world, half-emerged, nameless and genderless and unequivocally the picture of innocence and perfection. I struggled to voice my admiration for Sylvia, the extraordinary woman who I loved beyond comprehension, who had sheltered and forged a child of my own flesh and blood with her own body. But words only got me so far. I denied all attempts from those around me to push me aside and reached for our son.

"Sylvia, I am here. I have you. I have you both." I vowed and through the link that we created, my unwedded wife, our nearly-born child and I, she found the strength to give that final push.

I held the tiny, crying boy for no more than a few seconds before Sylvia reached for him. Watching as he entered the world was a miracle, but seeing the immediate bond that they formed she held him to her heart was enough to convince me that God was merciful and on our side despite the turmoil that we had just barely managed to persevere. His crying softened, and he knew without even opening his eyes that he was in the comforting embrace of his mother. Peace befell the four of us and we recovered together. I found that I could not stop marveling at them both, the two people who I loved beyond love.

"Boris," as she took my hand, her eyes smiled and softened with gratitude, "Will you name our son?"

This request robbed me of my breath. His face moved into view but quickly nuzzled back into Sylvia's breast. "Certainly not Boris," I laughed uncomfortably, and could only guess how relieved General Ballard must have looked when he heard this! I could see his profile, the thin strands of his brown hair glowed russet in the candlelight. His nose, though tiny, would undoubtedly strengthen into a trademark Bordon family nose. "Sebastian," I proclaimed as though he had whispered the answer to me and I was merely repeating it.

"I would have you hold Sebastian," Sylvia grinned as the quiet little boy hooked his arm around her neck, "but he appears to be a rather clingy little fellow!"

"I'm worried about him," General Ballard pushed his way into the picture. He appeared to be feeling rather discarded as he watched the three of us in our first moments as a family, "babies aren't supposed to be that quiet."

"That's because you raised the noisiest flock of women since harpies went extinct and fell into myth," I babbled out of pure adrenaline. Fortunately, the energy in the room had lightened enough for everyone to enjoy my humorous commentary. Perhaps Pastor Benson's wittiness was beginning to adhere to me, after all.

"He is perfect. Shy and sweet. Just like his Papa, I see so much of you in him, Sweetheart."

As she spoke, Sebastian moved again. It was more of a snuggle, really. Every motion that he made seemed a declaration of life, that he was his own, free-thinking individual who would soon develop his own interests and cares. I was so tremendously enraptured by this idea that I nearly ignored the question that General Ballard had posed.

"And will you be heading North again after you marry Sylvia?" He projected, ever-eager to plan ahead.

I blushed. I hadn't thought this through, at least not enough to give a coherent answer. "I'll go where I am needed, Sir. Aiding General Howe is my second priority. My family is my first. So, I would like to return to the Boston area once I know that these two are settled."

He gave me a quick, uninterested nod before returning to his daughter and grandchild, "It's a blessing, really. Now you can put your focus into what really matters." Although a new softness was present in his eyes, I could tell that he was still on edge. "You will be so preoccupied with your child when Boris heads off to war, that blasted violin will fade into obscurity."

This comment drew her usual look of tenacity back from the waters that it had drifted out into. She was no longer an exhausted, terrified new parent. But the unstoppable young woman who was willing to take on any challenge that presented itself, "You underestimate me, Papa!"

I smiled, if only on the inside. Sylvia could handle anything, anything at all. Underestimating her strength was one mistake that I would not be making again.


	15. Revenge of the Sylph

The snow continued to fall without hesitation, not stopping until Sebastian's second day on the globe. He showed little interest in anything but sleep and only cried when Sylvia tried to change him, wash him or hand him off to either General Ballard or myself. This seemed peculiar at first, but by the end of our third day there, any new behavior would come across as alarming. Sebastian was simply being Sebastian and the three of us couldn't have been more grateful to have him in our lives. His silence, shyness and tireless need to remain in his mother's arms strengthened on the day that we headed out into the cold. This made our journey across town tolerable, but also gave us some unique challenges to overcome.

Our destination was the church. From there, we planned to make for New Jersey. There, Sylvia and I would be given a glorious wedding amongst the social elite. According to her father, neither of us deserved a ceremony so grand, but he only said this to worsen our guilt. This tactic might have worked on myself, but he found that it was tragically thwarted when it came to his bold and beautifully shameless daughter. Being snowed in with an opposing personality may have been the tipping point for Sylvia because her more rebellious inclinations were beginning to overrule her sense of propriety. Regardless, the two of us would have agreed that we were far more interested in planning how we would proceed once married, and how the pressures that my new ranking might affect our child and less interested in the small family drama that appeared to be unfolding. There was no saying where my career would take me once I returned, but there was a general consensus among the Ballards and I that remaining in the northernmost colonies was more than favorable.

For now, however, we needed to retrieve several of Sylvia's priceless orchestrations that the General could not locate during his single, rushed visit at the church. I kept my hands directly above Sylvia's shoulders the whole time while her father moved out in front of us, creating a pathway with the edges of his feet. This was a strange sight to behold, as he was bogged down with all the boxes of gifts that he had purchased for his daughter while she was bedridden. In retrospect, it would have been easier to have the parcels shipped to New Jersey and for either one of her accompanying males to carry her, while the other carried the baby. But we all feared the fuss that he might make. My son and I were similar in our quietness, yes, but he had the ability to cause a scene that could put Sylvia's childhood theatrics over her compromised dresses and hats to shame.

Pastor Benson caught sight of us from his study and walked a total of two whole blocks, shovel in hand, to help bring the baby indoors twice as fast. He might have cracked a joke here and there, but clearing a space for Sylvia's feet that was neither slick nor bumpy took precedence over his eagerness to entertain. The shyness of my sweet son did throw the old pastor into a baffled tizzy, however. He loved babies. He told us this about twenty times before we even entered the building! After we were indoors where it was warm (well, significantly warmer than the outdoors), Sebastian's face was still hiding amongst the scalloped laces of Sylvia's new winter dress.

"How about a smile for ol' P.B.? Hm?" He sang, quite literally, to the back of the baby's fuzzy head. "No? A scream of acknowledgement? Hm? Poop green if you can hear me, brown if you want me to adopt you as my own little beansprout and keep you forever and ever, or just keep being precious, perfect and poopless for all of the above. Ah, well. The Little Lord Jesus, no crying he makes!"

Sylvia gave me a subtle arch of her eyebrow. I didn't know what she was implying by this gesture, all that I could decipher from it was that she was up to no good. I shook my head, indicating that I had not grasped her message and she dropped her eyes to the sleeping baby. Meanwhile, Pastor Benson was performing a clumsy, ridiculous "dance", shifting his weight from one widely spread leg to the other and making moose antlers on either side of his head with his hands.

"On the count of three," she muttered coolly between her teeth, "I am going to try to hand you the baby. You don't have to take him. You just need to cover your ears. Papa, you should, too. Ready? One. Two. Three." Sebastian was just relaxed enough for Sylvia to remove him- oh, a half-an-inch from her chest. The separation did not sit well with him in the slightest and, as was expected, he erupted into a banshee-grade scream that quickly expanded, filling up even quietest corners of the church.

"He's going to be a singer!" Pastor Benson shouted joyfully when the ephemeral, but deadly, screaming subdued. "Truthfully. He sounds better nearly half of my choir already!" This was not the reaction that Sylvia was after and he didn't stop shadowing her or the baby, even after General Ballard had collected her music. "You four can stay here, of course. For however long it takes to find means of travel."

The General, stern as ever, tucked the large, leather bound portfolio of music under his arm. Several pages of parchment fluttered to the ground. He neglected to pick them up and I could see Sylvia's pretty face begin to bake with anger. "Yes, yes," said he, still unaware of his fuming daughter, "that was the first item on my agenda. We should be sorted by the evening, assuming it doesn't start snowing again. Why ever are you glowering at me, Child?!" He asked, catching sight of the red-faced sylph out of the corner of his eye.

"Would it kill you to be gentler with my music?" Her green eyes narrowed and radiated in a defiant glare, "Or at the very least, show it half the dignity that you have shown my boxes of _clothing_?"

To add insult to injury, Sebastian started to fuss in response to all the arguing. I swooped down to the floor and collected the pieces of staff paper, upon which Sylvia had crammed as many variations of the same passage that would fit. Her latest fugue, no doubt. Just glancing at it made me woozy! I then made an effort to shush the baby, who took this gesture as potentially being "handed off" to someone else and his screams grew deadly once more.

"Boris, my boy," General Ballard began in a loud, albeit affectionate tone that took everyone in the room aback, "I trust you will keep a steady watch on that whiny, obnoxious, ungrateful little ankle biter while I am away? I am referring, of course, to my daughter." I lowered my eyes, seeking no involvement in this father-daughter spat. Unfortunately, I _was_ involved whether I wanted to be or not. "Don't churches typically have spaces where silence is enforced? Hm?"

It took a second for Pastor Benson to realize that this question was meant for him. "Typically, Sir. But this is a _fun_ church. Here our congregation enjoys themselves! Which is why I follow up my sermons with little gatherings. Sylvia went to a couple of them, didn't you?! Bread and wine soirees, Baby Moses Basket Weaving Night-"

"-Papa wants to put us in time out." Sylvia interrupted with a grumble. "In which case we will go to the chapel for some silent self-reflection." This couldn't be good. On days when the building was empty, Sylvia would often use the chapel for the charming vibrations that sounded against the walls as she played. That is, when Pastor Benson wasn't using the space to practice clogging for the same reason. "I mean, Boris and I still have some serious repenting to do…"

"That you do," the General paused momentarily, before turning his boxy shoulders away, whatever Sylvia had planned, it was working, "I expect you both to be ready when I return with the wagon and the horses." He made a point by keeping the book of music glued beneath his arm and snatched up Sylvia's violin case before making his leave.

"Touché," Sylvia threaded her fingers through Sebastian's fine hair that glittered a golden brown in the candlelight. Her eyes were thoughtful, and I could tell that she was devising some artful way to stray from her father's wishes. She was also looking directly at the few stray pages of her fugue that I still had in my hand. "Touché, Papa Bear."

The location of our solitary confinement was by far the most spectacular room in the building. Outside, the sky was just as white as the ground. Though the sunlight was greatly diminished by that cold haze, it was bright enough outside to cause the stained glass to perform a soft dance of colors around where we sat. Sylvia request that I spread the written fragments of melody across the music stand on the pipe organ. She wagered that Sebastian's vicelike grip around her neck was just tight enough for her to leave go of his bottom and back for a short while- and rightfully so. The finnicky babe allowed this just long enough for Sylvia's graceful, naturally musically inclined fingers to become reunited with the production of sweet sound. Several measures in, he started to whimper, forcing Sylvia to abandon the vast terrain of keys altogether.

"I haven't played a note since the day I left," Sylvia's voice quaked with emotion as she spoke, pained and raw. "What if Papa is right, Boris? What if my career truly is on the verge of fading into obscurity?"

I inched down the bench towards her, comforting her with a loving kiss to the cheek. "Your very soul is made up of music, my darling. A baby changes everything. A husband will, too. Once we… well. Both of these nuances in your life are no more than changes in time signature and key. I am here to support you and help you. Just tell me what to do and it shall be done." After an elongated look at the fugue, I deciphered a handful of the changing key signatures and from there, was able to place the notes. Saying that I could read it would have been a bit of a stretch, but I had at least a semblance of an idea of how the song might sound. "This piece has four parts going at once?"

"It's for a string quartet," Sylvia replied. Not condescendingly at all, although she remained distraught.

"I have an idea! Your father may have taken your violin, but I have one downstairs in my room! You can hum the viola's part, I can play one of the violins' parts, hum the bass line… or the cello's part, rather and Pastor Benson knows how to play this monstrosity of an instrument, doesn't he?

"You can't hum and play two separate lines of music simultaneously, Sweetheart, you'll make your brain bleed!" She was being difficult, but I understood where she was coming from. I fell silent and stared a while longer at the relentless slopes of melodic lines that had been scribbled feverishly on the page in front of me. "Three parts will do just fine," she surrendered at last, content with meeting me partway, "or two, if Pastor Benson is too busy."

"Pastor Benson? Busy?" I gave her a small wink, followed by a kiss to her forehead. "Fear not, my dear, I will do everything in my power to assist you until our son gives you your arms back!"

I raced down the hall, overjoyed to be helping Sylvia. When I caught a glimpse of the outside, I saw that it was snowing again with thrice the intensity as before! While our location may have changed, we remained trapped in the city. The sudden shift of the weather delayed General Ballard for several hours and this gave us ample time to help Sylvia with her fugue without interruptions. I hadn't yet been granted the pleasure of seeing her mind at work. Let alone, in tandem with others. Her enthusiasm for developing the piece as far as it could go, combined with Pastor Benson's nearly innate madness was fascinating to watch.

"We very nearly have the makings for a second movement!" Sylvia declared as she pridefully perused what we had so far. "I haven't collaborated on anything before! Not even with Lars!"

I wrote in the last couple of notes with my most legible penmanship and explained to Pastor Benson, "That's because she has been limited to producing music under wraps since she was- how old?"

"Well," Sylvia's glow of accomplishment began to diminish, "I remember using the harpsichord in our parlor for motivation when I was learning to walk." I grinned and even considered telling her how Andre's violin served a similar purpose for me just months prior, but kept to nodding silently instead. "Papa was excited about this. But music was never meant to be anything more than an enjoyable pastime for his daughters. At best, a social embellishment that would make us come across as more appealing and better schooled than the other young ladies of New Jersey. Never a career."

"Hence the Anonymous," Pastor Benson mumbled in the most serious tone that I had ever heard him use. "Will you ever come forward about your gift?"

As rhetorical questions often imply, an answer was neither necessary or given. Sylvia continued to pick away at the harmonies by humming each one to herself, over and over, for several hours afterwards. She seemed distant, but no less grateful. Simply knowing that she had two people who saw her talent and wanted to help her nurture it while she was unable to play seemed to humble her and keep her mind away from the troubles of motherhood. If only for a while.

Evening approached, and the General had yet to return. I helped Sylvia become settled in the upstairs room that she had occupied before. Her forearms and shoulders were so fatigued from holding our healthy newborn that they had turned red and shaky towards the end of the day. I sat beside her, reading passages from the gospels to both of them. I noticed several times before that Sebastian would respond positively to the sound of my voice while he was being changed. These brief moments of calmness were difficult to glimpse and at first, I thought that I was being overly optimistic. But what I saw on this particular evening was very encouraging, indeed.

Sylvia nudged my shoulder. "Sweetheart," she muttered as I paused between paragraphs. "He's watching you."

I stole a quick glance. The silence was present just long enough to cause Sebastian to retreat. Quickly, I looked at the first sentence of the next passage, memorized it and recited it aloud while keeping my eyes on the baby. Sure enough, his head turned outward, and I saw what was a relatively rare sight those days. Two blue eyes, full of purity and wonder. That silly little nose that I already knew would take years for him to grow into. Above all, however, he appeared to be smiling at me. Regardless of General Ballard's earlier observation that babies at this age only smile when their tummies are acting up, if you catch my drift. The emergence of his hand, reaching out to touch my arm was enough to tell me that even if that smile really was just indigestion, I was doing something right.

I continued to "read", making up parts here and there when the bible was out of sight. Sylvia, slowly and methodically, pushed Sebastian towards me and I reached, not stopping until the perfectly silent boy was nuzzled pleasantly against my chest. Not being emotional was a challenge. This was, after all, the first time that I truly held my son since the moment that he was born. The reverberation of my voice caused him to draw nearer and it wasn't long before he and Sylvia were fast asleep. My reading tapered off after a half an hour or so and I traded it in for soothing strokes along his fragile little back.

"Your mama and papa love you very much," I told him, settling into a chair by the window that overlooked the frozen streets. With every word I spoke, my son's hands gripped tighter and tighter onto my shirt. My heart began to overflow with warmth, with love. The airway in my throat grew smaller, my eyes filled with heavy tears that dislodged themselves as I released a hushed and secretive sob into the night. "I will never let any harm come to you, my son. I promise."

 **A/N: You probably know where I'm going with this, but my updates are going to be sparse for a couple of months. I am taking 15 credit hours this semester along with my senior capstone class. That on top of getting volunteer hours for applying for the master's program is… ambitious? Potentially draining? You get the picture… However, I will aim for weekly, weekend updates because this is what I do to unwind. And everyone needs a little chill time in their lives, ya know?**

 **I also have NOT abandoned "Butcher's Daughter", its plot is simply flowing into a colossal spoiler for this story and I want them to intervene with one another nicely. Also, I have another "Patriot" fic in the works that is time travel central and will involve Banastre, Bordon, some familiar cannon and OC's from my earlier work and some new ones, too. It's all in production, but it might take a while to become refined enough to post. X**


	16. What is Right and What is Easy

Sylvia and I awoke on a cold morning in mid-January, completely unaware of the plan that had been forged while we slept. I was still in the chair that I nodded off in and little Sebastian remained very much at home in my arms. Just before dawn, the General returned from his intense battle against the snowy streets of New York and stole a disapproving glance or two of his daughter and I. I would later learn that he nearly dismissed me from the space, but after catching sight of the sleeping baby on my chest, he refrained from making the confrontation and went to speak with the chronically restless Pastor Benson instead.

"You look so parental," Sylvia teased me. She was rolled over onto her side, making minor adjustments to a new page of music that she had scribbled out in a sudden frenzy of genius while I was still asleep. My eyebrows shot up in concern and she eased into her usual songlike wave of laughter. Oh! How it warmed my heart to hear that laugh again! "Don't you fret, Sweetheart! It doesn't make you any less attractive to me. In fact," she rose to her feet, skipped quietly across the room and placed a light kiss on my lips, "you have a tendency to surprise me right when I start to think that I could not adore you more." Her attention moved to Sebastian and she gave the back of his head a similar, airy kiss. "He isn't hurting your chest at all, is he?"

"Not in the slightest," I shrugged. Between caring for Sylvia and the excitement of becoming a father, any concern for my own wounds was pushed to the back of my mind. "He will be needing a change before too long, though."

Sylvia reached for the baby. He bemoaned this severance from comfort, but recovered at a pace that almost seemed too sudden. "You just keep getting sweeter and sweeter, don't you?"

She gave him a toy, a small ragdoll that Pastor Benson had constructed out of a sack after learning that Sebastian didn't have any such plaything, and this kept him occupied while he was being sorted. I couldn't help but admire Sylvia as she tended to our son. A nurse at the infirmary showed her how to properly change a baby. The agility of her fingers and her iron stomach made her a better candidate for the task than the General and I combined!

Once he was cleaned up and ready for the next, oh, couple of hours or so, Sylvia continued to look down at him. I watched her elegant, ladylike profile. Several strands of her pale hair just barely concealed her cheeks that were rounded with a smile. She lifted the bottoms of Sebastian's tiny feet to her lips, kissing each one and massaging them gently between her fingers. "You look exactly like your Papa." With an almost perfect sense of comic timing, he started to cry.

"Oh, don't say such a thing!" I chuckled, "You'll only upset him!"

Sylvia granted my jest a quick laugh before loosening the long, white ribbon at the top of her chemise. It's embarrassing to admit, even after all these years, but my face always reddened a touch every time I saw her feed him. Her father was aghast at how little privacy she sought for this process, but it happened often and without warning, especially during those long durations of time that she spent holding him.

 _"_ _This is about the baby," she would tell General Ballard on repeat, "it has nothing to do with me. Nor your own discomfort. If you have a problem with it, just look away!"_

I would watch, of course. Admiring both Sylvia and the bond that she and Sebastian shared. Her round, alabaster breast was mine to adore for only a moment before the baby's pink mouth latched and it disappeared behind the horizon of his tufts of hair.

"Tea?" I asked, taking a brief, uninterested look out the window.

We exchanged a subtle smile. "Tea sounds lovely, thank you" she said, shutting her eyes and taking a calming breath.

I walked past where she stood, swaying softly on her feet. Remaining in motion helped her with the occasional zings of pain that she felt when Sebastian bit down or sucked too rigorously. My hand, with its usual miscalculated boldness moved down the smooth slope of flesh of her exposed shoulder. I could feel myself falling into yet another trance of intense wonderment for the woman I loved and the life that we created through our love. His eyes remained opened as he fed. His hands, smaller and more fragile than rose petals floated aimlessly across his mother's bosom and grasped occasionally at her golden waves. A true Bordon baby, he wasn't only born with what was nearly a full head of hair, but long eyelashes of the same shade of reddish-brown. I could almost feel what Sylvia was feeling when they fluttered against her skin.

"I'm sorry," I caught myself saying, capturing them both in a faint embrace. Whether the apology was for how long my eyes stayed upon her nakedness or how near I was to another episode of joyful tears that had become all too common for me these days, I could not say.

Sylvia shushed me, welcomed me, permitted my eyes and hands to go anywhere they pleased, just so long as I didn't disrupt the baby in the process. My lips grazed and perused the corner of Sylvia's smiling face. I breathed her in, making a tender journey from her neck to her mouth. She didn't contribute much for the first couple of seconds, she relaxed and gave me free reign. It reminded me of how it felt to kiss her while she was still asleep. "Take your time," she whispered encouragingly when I stopped, "remember, the snow has trapped us like mice."

"The apocalypse is here, and we are but church mice," I mused, whimsically, pausing to take a sorry stab at a squeaking sound before diving into Sylvia's all-consuming kiss. I was about to leave her with an admittedly bizarre and underdeveloped tangent about how church mice procreate inside houses of worship all the time when I heard the gravelly noise of General Ballard clearing his throat.

"Papa!" Sylvia stepped out of my arms and, after taking special care to position the feeding baby over as much of her breast as was possible, imposed an awkward hug from her father. "We were terribly worried about you!"

I could tell that poor General Ballard had an entire three act play's worth of soliloquies to deliver to us about how poorly we were conducting ourselves. Instead, he told us, flatly, "Your insistence on observing practices that are reserved for marriage has compelled Pastor Benson and I to make a little arrangement." I looked to Sylvia, then to General Ballard, understanding what this meant right away. "You will be married in this dump, Silly, and there will be no champagne, no guests, no music. You won't have a gown made for you like Aunt Eleanor did."

"Do you truly believe that I am that trite, Papa?"

He looked her over and sneered. "What you and Lieutenant Bordon-"

"-Captain," Sylvia interjected with pride. "Captain Greer appointed him. He received the letter confirming it while living in the church."

"Captain Bordon-" the General shook his head and corrected himself, hardly impressed by the news. Why, I could have been crowned the King of England two hours ago and he wouldn't have batted an eyelash! "-make of your marriage is your own doing. You may visit the estate whenever you wish. Regardless of how deeply I may disagree with your antics, you are family." Sebastian stopped what he was doing and looked out into the hall, directly at his grandfather. The General's cheeks began to blister with anger, right where Sylvia's reddened when she was irate. "Will you please stop behaving like a damned exhibitionist?!" He blared.

"You know, Papa, if God changed His mind for creativity's sake and made it so that men were the ones to breastfeed their children, shirts and coats would be rendered so superfluous that tailors would be out of the job!" She could see her father's complexion turning to a nearly plumb-like shade. He was about to burst, but Sylvia proceeded with the tangent that had been building up inside of her, regardless. "Do you know what a corset is? Rather, do you know what a pregnancy corset is? That should be a damned contradiction, don't you think?! Well, it isn't! While we're having the wind knocked out of us by those torture devices, you entitled few are lounging around the house in your breaches. Shirts, optional. It hardly seems fair to me that the only time that I can let my girls out to breathe, you heard me, is to have them chomped on by a hungry baby. Then to be called a bloody exhibitionist?!"

"I'm going to… go make that tea now," I gave the General a slight bow and scuttled down the hall as fast as my feet could carry me. Their argument resounded throughout the entire building. Why, I could still hear them just as clearly in the kitchen as I had when we three were in the same room! While waiting for the water to boil, I sat on a rickety chair in the corner and covered my eyes with my palms. The truth was, I was relieved to hear that Sylvia and I would be married sooner rather than later. But I was also afraid. Afraid of how the General's treatment of us might change once our vows were exchanged, or worse, if it wouldn't change at all.

Journeying back to New Jersey with all three of them was inevitable. Having to endure miles of road while listening to his commentary about how ashamed he was about his daughter's actions would wear on me. Hell, it was wearing on me already! I began to pray and prayed over the sound of the water when it rumbled into a boil. My emotions strung themselves into a confused tangle of half-formed words, but I sent them up to God, regardless.

I had fantasized about marrying Sylvia everyday since our courtship began. When I learned that she was with child, those fantasies grew complicated, but they were no less wonderful. Happiness, that was the hope from which these visions sprung. I wanted nothing more than happiness for my family. Furthermore, I felt responsible for bringing joy to their lives and maintaining it by fighting off any opposing forces. But I could not fight General Ballard! I couldn't even open up an argument with him about what the proper cream-to-sugar ratio is in a cup of tea was without breaking into a sweat! Or could I?

Their screams concluded with the slamming of a door, but the silence that followed was more disheartening than welcome. It soon filled with the rapid noise of footsteps and I knew at once that he was coming for me next. I poured the water from kettle to teapot with wobbling hands, sifted the leaves into a strainer and started to hunt for a tray. His shadow fell upon me. Whether it was God who was giving me strength to speak or my natural inclination for foolishness, I could not say.

"General Ballard, this must stop." I said flatly, the second that his eyes narrowed into spikes and ripped into my own, I panicked. But somehow, I kept it hidden. "You are a military man, too. We both know what suffering looks like. We both know how it feels to be so close to death that the option of giving in appears to be a blessing. Sylvia has suffered tremendously. Seeing the woman that I love coming out of such a trial only to be ridiculed and brought to shame for what I initiated is too much to bear."

His breathing grew louder. The hatred behind his eyes still blazed, savage and green. I saw the punch before he threw it and counterintuitively, I leaned into the impact of his fist. Ripples of pain pulsated throughout my left cheek and jaw. "How dare you insult my intelligence!" He shouted, reaching for my collar and pinning me against the wall. "A pathetic little mouse like you forcing yourself upon my daughter? Ha!"

"You want to hit me, fine." I could taste the blood on my tongue as I slurred my words. "Beat me lifeless for all I care. It will be over my dead body that you will ever call Sylvia an exhibitionist again. You will have to kill me if you want to belittle her or her compositions when I'm around." His thick fingers wrapped around my throat, he could have strangled me or broken my neck if he wanted to. "You have me up against a wall, Sir. So, what is it going to be?"

"You have a son to raise," his words might have softened, but the harshness of his stare did not, "that little boy is your saving grace." The grip around my neck loosened and I was soon on solid ground, but the General kept me cornered until after had had spoken his part. "Children are the world's greatest teachers. While you are off fighting for the Crown, Sylvia will be charged with raising Sebastian alone. She will learn what is important in life. Music and fucking will lose their luster before long."

So much for propriety! "Sir," I now begged, "can't you see how brilliant your daughter is? I only wish to preserve her spirit. Those who oppose her, who try to break her down, are my enemies."

He threw back his round, bald head and laughed. The anger that lingered within him made him seem nearly maniacal. "I am not your enemy, Boy. It's that spirit that you are speaking of that is. Be honest with yourself. When you received that letter. The one regarding Banastre Tarleton, did you believe it? Spirited women are dangerous. By filling her head with nonsense, you are losing control of a contained fire. You can't raise a family atop a pile of rubble. You need structure, structure that is protected by laws, Son." He allowed me to step away, several paces before interrupting my flight to the brewing tea. "Has she told you about Vienna?"

I knew this tactic. Coming from a man who forced his daughter to pen such a grotesque letter, he was trying to drive a wedge between Sylvia and I. It would not work. Not this time. "She touched on it," I lied. If he wanted to hit me again, so be it.

"Sylvia is under the delusion that those ridiculous concertos of hers will earn her the profits to relocate to some musician's paradise abroad. You and I are soldiers and she still can't rationalize that there is a war-"

"-Have you heard her music played before?" I interjected. Yes, I felt slightly triangulated that her father knew of her ambitions to travel to Vienna and I had not, but it hardly felt like a betrayal. "It may seem a lofty goal, but with a talent so immense, she possesses the key to all the world! It would be wasteful if she didn't travel and gain new experiences."

"See, now, you aren't thinking like a parent," he lectured, steering the conversation as far away from his daughter's musical inclination as possible. I was running out of patience and on the verge of making another unintelligent move when hurt, genuine hurt covered the General's face. "I used to trust Silly. She was my special pet. But the secrets that she kept from me… and how she ran away from her perfect home to follow you. Twice! Without a care for the toll that her leaving might take on my heart. After all those years, all those gifts," he hesitated, reading my thoughts. I'd never condoned his practice of buying his way into Sylvia's heart. "I do what I must," he said with stunning simplicity, "to keep Silly in a safe and happy place. If you don't tie her down early, she'll blow away on a favorable breeze and you will never see her again." Our dual of wits and temperaments was a draw. Wounded, not by me, but by his own thoughts, General Ballard excused himself from the kitchen and vanished around the corner.

I assembled Sylvia's tea on the tray and took it up to her room. Like me, she seemed on edge and confused about where we stood with one another and with the General.

"What happened to your face?" She inquired with caution as I sat the tray on the bed and poured us both a cup. "What did you say to him? What did you discuss?"

I inhaled the smooth, peppery fragrance of the earl grey and took a sip before answering. "Laws," when the tea wasn't enough to ease my nerves, I smoothed my fingers over the sparse hairs on the back of my son's head and felt at peace. "According to your father, successful marriages require laws. What will turn out to be an ugly bruise on the side of my face was the price that I had to pay in order to lay down the first one."

Her slender left eyebrow arched, "Which is?"

"That anyone who dares to insult, slenderize or belittle my wife must answer to my fist."

"I see," she set her tea on the tray. "Papa is controlling. Commanding and maintaining order, that is what he loves. By allowing us to marry, he must feel as though he is losing control of me. He isn't a bad person, Boris. Believe it or not, he is very fond of you." The baby stirred and looked down at the teapot with curious eyes. Sylvia intercepted his hand before he was able to reach out and burn himself. "You didn't punch Papa, did you?"

"No, he got to me first." I looked up at her, sheepishly and smiled as best I could. After examining my swollen face, she chose a space on the edge of the wound and gave it a tiny peck. It hurt like hell, but I didn't let it show.


	17. Looking Before Leaping

General Ballard fell into a bitter, wordless silence. In the long days that followed our argument, the only sounds that we heard him produce were the sludging of his feet and the angry thwacking of his shovel as he butted heads with the impenetrable barricade of snow that ringed the church. The city that surrounded us would make tentative attempts to spring to life again, only to be met with another blizzard. It was man versus nature in the cruelest sense of the word and everyone felt it. New York had become a city of lonesome ships, tossed about on a torrential sea of white. Every man, woman and child were warding off acute cases of cabin fever, hunger and thirst. Arguments echoed from one building to the next, overlapping and striking back at one another like agitated cobras. Sylvia and I were quiet. Pastor Benson, too, but every time I heard the General combating the elements in isolation, pangs of guilt would overtake me.

The first couple of days, I would ask him if he needed any assistance. The proud old man, dressed to the nines in his uniform as though he were commanding his troops on the field, would stop what he was doing and glare. Only glare. The one time that I located a shovel of my own in the downstairs storage space and joined him, he paused to ask me if the deed was done. Although I had some notion of what this implied, I asked for clarity's sake. He believed, in short, that by becoming consumed by his task in this icy purgatory, he would avoid having to witness my marriage to his daughter.

"At least I know now where all that stubbornness comes from," I would say to Sylvia as we worked side by side in the kitchen. Our new custom.

Thawing blocks of ice and boiling the water until it was sanitized and drinkable, was how we contributed to the curious community that we had formed with those residing in the church. Food was scarce, and the constant intake of water convinced our bodies that they were full for a while. One meal a day was all that we were allowed. I would give Sylvia half of my ration, sometimes more, knowing that if she fell into malnutrition, it would be impossible for her to feed our son. We both had moments of hunger-inspired irritability, tiny spats over misplaced ladles or pots, but nothing that could not be laughed off and forgotten before the end of the day.

Our daily and nightly rituals remained the same and solidified themselves. I would take the baby at night, Sylvia would sleep for several hours and naturally awaken at around three in the morning with fresh ideas for her music. I liked this arrangement, as strange as it sounds. Sebastian and I fell asleep without any trouble, but it wasn't until the masterfully written waves of sound reached our ears that either of us slept deep enough to dream. We reached a consensus and I think the General figured it out as well and this is why he allowed us to continue our little "trial period" of living in the same space. Namely, intimacy was out of the question. The first reason being that Sebastian was just too clingy to free up our arms long enough for any such act. The second was that Sylvia needed time to heal, more time, perhaps, than other women might.

Because we were living in a shared space, we could not keep secrets. I equated blood loss to gaping wounds and was terrified when I saw just how heavily she was bleeding. And how often. I begged her to let me take care of her clothing and bedsheets. An awful idea on my part. Even worse was when I would bring hot water up from the kitchen and notice how much blood had collected in the bucket when she was through washing. She seemed like Sylvia on the outside; just as cheerful, strong and contrary as she had been before conception. On this inside, however, she appeared to be falling apart at the seams. I wanted answers, I wanted her to see a doctor and Sylvia would hear none of it.

Pastor Benson was not one to discuss serious matters with, so one morning when Sylvia was having her bath with two large buckets of water that I had thawed and warmed while she was napping, I gathered up my strength and went to speak to her father. The doorway and part of the path had been cleared, but it was lined with two mountains of snow that were nearly a foot taller than I was! A new wave of snowflakes was beginning to freckle the breeze. I could see him, weaving through the stacks like a sharp, red needle. He grunted noisily as he worked.

"General Ballard," I walked towards him, tightly encasing Sebastian between my coat and chest. I cringed at the soreness that still lingered there like a ghost from Bunker Hill, "Sir, I am worried about Sylvia."

"Take that baby indoors," he didn't bother to turn, "he'll catch his death out here."

"Could you at least look at her? Please? I'm considering taking her back to the infirmary, but would like a second opinion."

He slung the shovel over his broad shoulders. "You would like a second opinion?" The General mocked. He could see the helplessness in my eyes, but hesitated. His belief that I was a fool who knew nothing about women in the postpartum stage of their pregnancies (which was true, I might add), outweighed his concern for Sylvia. But only temporarily. "This had better be an emergency, Boris," he spat, tossing the shovel on a patch of freshly fallen snow. I trailed him into the hallway and up the creaky staircase to the storage space that Sylvia and I now called home. As he banged on the door, the hinges rattled. "Silly. Open up."

 _"_ _I'm naakeed!"_ We heard her sing, mock-operatically. The General turned and looked at me as if I were nothing more than his life's most useless distraction. She opened the door some thirty seconds later, draped in a night dress that was sheer against her damp skin. She acknowledged each of us with a nod, "Boris, Papasicle, Spawn."

"You seem in a merry mood this morning," General Ballard muttered suspiciously to Sylvia. But his eyes were on me. "Boris was under the impression that you were deathly ill." Her pretty smile drooped like a wilting flower and I felt dreadful. "Are you?"

She crossed her arms over her chest. "This is our first child," Sylvia explained to her father as calmly as she could, "Boris needs to understand-" the General brushed past her and entered the room, we could see that he was heading towards a pile of her blood soaked bedclothes. "This is normal for me," she told him. "Even before Sebastian, I bled longer and heavier than my sisters. I had them and Nora to talk to about that, so you never learned. Papa!" She covered her face as he started to sift through the articles of clothing. "You are embarrassing me!" My heart was about to rupture in my chest. I wasn't the only victim of my own ignorance this time. Now, Sylvia was forced to be humiliated alongside me. "I told Boris what my midwife told me, this is to be expected. Can you please put down my underthings?!" I didn't expect that she would ever forgive me or her father. But Sylvia always managed to amaze me. Right as her father was fixing to make his escape back to the snow, a clever smile graced her petulant lips. "Now that we have you inside, Papa… Pastor Benson told us that he and God were ready and willing at any time."

Unpersuaded, he drew the curtains back from the window and looked out at the steady flurry. "If I don't stay on top of my work, it will be covered up and I'll have to start over again!"

"You won't give your daughter away? Hm? You won't be our witness? Goodness, Papa! It's customary! I never knew you to pass on tradition." I remained silent and stunned. My beautiful, brilliant wife-to-be had her equally intelligent father under her thumb.

"Yours is not going to be a traditional marriage," he snapped, "you'll be better off without me. Hell, you could even be married in the skimpy little dress that you have on now. I'm sure Boris would appreciate that!"

I looked at the floor, meekly, as I collected what fractured bits of courage were still residing within me from the other day, "We will need a witness, Sir," Sebastian started to coo, subconsciously adding to my counterargument, "and someone to hold the baby."

He laughed through his nose. Every time he held his grandson in the past, he would kick and scream until my arms or Sylvia's took him in.

"Please, Papa," Sylvia continued, knowing as well as I that once he stepped foot outside, we would surely lose the option of having him at our impromptu wedding. "You're going to have to wrestle with the reality of your youngest being married every day for the rest of your life," she faltered, half-certain of where her reasoning was leading her. "Take Sebastian for example, you have a grandson. That happened. That is real. Every hour of every day, you are a grandpa. I know that you were angry at me and Boris, but that didn't make witnessing his birth any less spectacular for you, did it? Boris and I-"

I moved into the space and took her hand. I had seen the point that she was trying to make and longed to relieve her of this difficult conversation as best I could, "We will only have one wedding, Sir. As appealing as missing it might seem now," I stroked the edge of Sylvia's cheek, "we are trying to save you the regret."

He pivoted on a damp, squeaky heel and thumped his way down the stairs. We did not hear the front door nor the side door swing open. No, instead we heard him strike up an intentionally muffled conversation with Pastor Benson directly below our feet. The pastor didn't do secrecy well and when we heard him start to clap his hands and giggle (yes, giggle) in response, the reality dawned on Sylvia and I. Ten months, not even ten. That was how long I had carried her in my heart. Through training, to battle, all the way to death's door and back. If anyone had asked me my opinion of Sylvia Ballard one year prior to our wedding day, I would have told them that she was a rude, obnoxious little brat. The thought of being around her any longer than I was required to be seemed a cruel act of torture. Now, I couldn't imagine life without her.

"So quiet," she smiled at me, her face was radiating with pure and beautiful joy. "What is on your mind, Sweetheart?"

"Sylvia, I'm afraid," I softly confided in her, placing my head on her shoulder, "I always make the worst decisions and cause the people I love so much pain. I want to be a good husband. I want to be perfect for you and our son."

"So noble," her flirtation shifted abruptly to tenderness and her eyes fell to Sebastian. He looked to her, then to me and wrapped his tiny hand around Sylvia's finger. "You managed to bring Papa indoors. You might have embarrassed me slightly in the process, but… Boris, think about it! If your strength hadn't faltered at Bunker Hill, we might not have found one another again. We have fate on our side," she kissed my forehead, "if only you could see yourself through my eyes, Sweetheart, then you would understand how truly perfect you are."

As General Ballard had observed, there would be nothing extravagant or perhaps even memorable about our marriage ceremony. Sylvia and I thought differently. Once we were briefed on what to expect, our anxieties melted away and we became giddy with enthusiasm. She pulled out all her dress and hat boxes and consumed herself with the deeply meditative process of deciding what to wear for the occasion. I held Sebastian and watched from the corner. I had always known her to be a fashionable woman, but never before had I witnessed her building an ensemble, which she followed through with all the seriousness of composing a symphony.

"Hmmm… blue!" She announced after nearly twenty minutes of pacing in front of the open boxes.

"Blue?" I cocked my head to the side as she removed a satiny gown the color of a clear, afternoon sky. It was lovely, with fine detailing on the sleeves and bodice. Indeed, out of her limited options, it was the among the most traditionally bridal. "Do you recall the dress that you wore," the memory made me blush, "when your father invited me for afternoon tea? The white one that you followed me home in?"

Sylvia returned to the row, her cheeks just as flushed as mine. "I left that dress at the estate. For all I know, Nora is still trying to remove all of the mud from the train! Poor thing. That would have been so lovely, too! Since it holds sentimental value for you and I." Her pacing commenced, and I stepped forward to help her peruse. "Or even the pink gown that I wore to the ball, remember?"

"How could I forget? And those gloves! Aren't you pleased to no longer be burdened with them?" We shared a smile and our toes stopped, bookending an intricately sewn specimen that was a beautiful shade of sage green.

"When did you fall in love with me?" Sylvia asked, "I mean, I know it was a process, certainly. But does any moment stand out in your memory as 'the moment'?"

I could feel my blush deepening, warming my neck and the surface of my ears. It had all been a long series of nervous speculations until she backed me into my armchair by the fireside and seduced me. Her kiss, her embrace, the heavenly fulfillment that I felt as we became one in the dark laid all my suspicions to rest. I knew then that it was love, but it was still so raw, it needed the right amount of time and pain for it to flourish. Even now, I knew that I had a ways to fall. Perhaps, I would never stop falling in love with Sylvia.

There were glimpses of certainty along the way, too, guiding me into her loving arms. "Well, you caught my attention when you asked me to remove your gloves in the cellar," I started, rather innocently. "Then when I first heard you play your violin, it was as though you had transported me to another world," my stare softened and I knew at once the exact point that the surface of the earth began crumbling beneath my feet. "I recall our exchange of letters, of rosin and strings. I remember standing on the street in front of Lars' Draper Shoppe and seeing you appear behind the glass. Amidst the pain and humiliation that had followed me from training, there you were. You gave me peace, Sylvia. Peace and the precious gift of music when you invited me into your world and patiently taught me how to play."

"That was the peach and burgundy dress," she thought aloud, but one glance into her adoring eyes told me that she was no longer concerned with finding the ideal dress. Her pink lips climbed upwards into a smile. "There is this window in the estate, Boris," her weighted thought was run through by a violent banging on the door. It remained suspended in the air between us as General Ballard stormed in.

"Women!" He groaned, glancing at the legions of boxes on the ground. "Boris, why don't you follow the lady's example and make yourself presentable. I would like to have a few words with her before…" his thought trailed off in feigned disinterest.

I left the room with Sebastian in one arm and my uniform in the other. How "presentable" I could become depended on the baby's behavior and I already knew that I would fumble through the process as I remembered what was and wasn't proper dress code. It felt strange being in full uniform again. I had mended the thing, soaked out all of the bloodstains from battle and polished the buckles and buttons anew. Yet, it didn't feel my own anymore. I hardly felt like a soldier these days. Just a wounded man cowering in a snowstorm while my comrades remained under siege in Boston.

I wore it for General Ballard and his silent devotion to propriety that had been otherwise dashed. I wore it for Sylvia, so that she might find comfort in marrying a complete image of a man. I suppose, too, I wore it for myself as a reminder of the great responsibility that I was taking on. In marrying Sylvia, I was to become a defender of my family, just as I was for the Crown. My hands began to shake, my palms glistened with sweat, just as they had on the ship as it crossed the harbor and carried me to my first battle. Every decision that I had ever made led me to this point and Sylvia, sweet Sylvia, her words resounded in my heart, wrapping around me and comforting me as I left the room and headed for the chapel downstairs: fate was on our side.


	18. One Hand, One Heart

There were many times, countless really, when my senses would surrender themselves to Sylvia's beauty. The world around me would vanish, the sands of time would stop flowing and I would bear witness to something eternal, something that was not of this world. The golden light of heaven was woven into her twists and waves of hair. I could look at those sweet tresses without touching and touch them without looking and the feeling would remain the same. Softness and warmth. Tangible and intangible. I would look upon Sylvia and feel waves of comfort spilling out of her and onto my wounds and various apprehensions. She surrounded me like the notes of a familiar song, mending me and shaping me into the man- the "perfect" person who she believed me to be. Her hair flowed freely down her back and across her shoulders on our wedding day. Not a strand was tucked away or untouched by the white wintertime sun. Branching off in all directions, like bends in a flaxen river, the coloring and texture of her hair paid compliment to the groupings of satin that made up a new gown, one that I hadn't seen before, but that would surely remain locked in my memory for the rest of my life.

It was an evening gown, one that she might wear to a party or dinner amongst the social elite. The base was a dark shade of ivory and into it, a colorful garden of pink flowers with spiraling green branches was sewn. What made it so spectacular to me were the threads of gold that the seamstress had incorporated in even lines. They danced beneath the light as she and her father approached me in the chapel. The space had a quiet somberness about it, no choir nor musician were present, but my graceful bride would hold my attention over any other sight or sound. Sylvia needed no music, Sylvia was the very spirit of music, trapped inside of her willowy body. The bell sleeves of the gown hung like the petals on a sleeping flower. Her pale arms, slender and strong, unlinked themselves from her father and the two shared a long embrace before he announced that he was willingly giving his daughter to me. I pondered the similarities of their rounded facial structures, their flushed complexions and lively green eyes. She reflected him as Sebastian reflected me. I imagined myself in his place, years from now, witnessing my own child's wedding and I was humbled.

Sylvia's eyes saw that mine were aloft. Something had grown inside of her eyes, a sparkling innocence that was interwoven with wisdom. In many ways, they were the same eyes that looked up at me with tactfully concealed affection as she snatched parcels from my arms and raced to spill their contents on the base of the lavish marble staircase in her home. I never knew that she loved me so. Not until I started to connect those broken pieces and saw that same wild girl comforting me through her tears on the night that I snatched her virtue away. The stars in her eyes mapped out the unseen heavens that only the Gods can witness from their lofty kingdoms in the clouds. She smiled at me and the picture blurred like a drying painting submerged in the sea. I was crying. I knew that this would happen. I knew that she would reach inside of me and touch my weakest self and rattle my deepest pains. Yet, the light that radiated from beautiful Sylvia passed through my tears and illuminated the pathway that led me back to the moment. My armor was gone, my soul lay bare before her and somehow, I was unafraid.

Our hands touched. I blinked and smiled as I felt the familiar surface of those doeskin gloves that she had unearthed for the occasion. Sebastian, who was sleeping obliviously in the crook of my left arm stirred just long enough to watch as I slipped the gloves off of Sylvia's hands. Neither General Ballard nor Pastor Benson understood this gesture, but Sebastian seemed to entertain them when he seized each glove and fell back into a peaceful dream with them tucked between my chest and his cheek. Sylvia, sweet Sylvia brushed her naked fingertips against my face, erasing those embarrassing tear tracks. We said not a word to one another. Her eyes, endless and green paused to adore me. _Me._ 'Why me?' I wondered, as I so often did. I caressed her bare knuckles before moving on to her fingertips that were burned and callused from overexposure to the strings of her violin. I pulled them to my lips for a tender kiss.

"I love you," I told her, wondering if I had only thought it. Knowing that I had said it aloud when Sylvia repeated those words to me. We were consumed by one another and also by a divine presence that had entered the space. God was there, God was watching in gentle confirmation of this union. Indeed, it was the closest to heaven I felt in all my life and then… Pastor Benson's usual showboating commenced.

"To rob Miss Ballard of her clever nomenclatures… Papasicle. Spawn. We are starving! We are freezing! Feral mutts and black bears are running rampant in the streets!" He started to pace back and forth on the steps. General Ballard arched his eyebrow in my direction. I returned the gesture. "By the time New York thaws out in the Spring, it will have suffered a drastic population decrease. These are trying times, my childre- sorry, my ornery General and cute, pudgy little bundle of crying, pooping, helpless sweetness. But today, we will turn our attention away from our selfish fantasies of ripping out one another's spinal columns as we fight over that final, tasty spot of porridge. A dot, really. Not even a spoonful. You know the one I'm talking about. Sitting pretty at the bottom of the pot each evening? Wicked porridge. Taunting porridge. Out damned spot! I digress. We will meditate, instead, on the tragedy that the elegantly named Sylvia Angelica Ballard is about to marry a man called Boris Babcock Bordon." He stumbled towards me, "This begs the question, sonny-boy, did your parents hate you?!" I blushed, watching Sylvia closely as she restrained what was either laughter or the initiative to clock him in the face. "Let's begin with the 'Boris'. Then we'll get into the 'Babcock' later."

"There really isn't much to tell, Pastor Benson," I groaned, this was one hoop that I was not expecting to jump through, "my father was something of a recluse who was only ever friendly with an elusive traveler from Nova Scotia named Boris Babcock," the redness on my face burned brighter than before, "Mr. Babcock made his living capturing and selling… wild hogs at a discount price."

"You were named after a traveling hog salesman?!" General Ballard snorted to his daughter who remained, at least on the surface, unaffected by this news.

"Mystery solved! This is what marriage is all about, my friends. Trusting one another. Knowing one another. Moving past all of the embarrassment, throwing off all of your clothes and doing the dance without any pants! Oh, wait, you already had a kid. Avant-garde! That's French. They invented mayonnaise. Obsessed with raisins. Humiliated grapes, really. Think about it! Lovely singing voices. Eunuchs all of them… NOW… I would like to ask," the gangly, grey-haired pastor bounced his finger between Sylvia and I as if chance depended upon who it would land on first, "Boris! Boris, my boy! I believe you've prepared something special for your lady love," I was lost, and it showed, "vows of some sort?"

"Oh," my blush drained, leaving behind nothing but whiteness, "don't we follow a script?"

From below, Sylvia's slender hand gave mine a small squeeze, "Boris has never been to a wedding," she wagered. Correctly, I might add. "May I start?"

"First rule of improv!" Our pastor clubbed his hands together with glee. "Just say 'yes and…'!"

"There is a window in the estate," Sylvia recalled with a beautiful grin. "Like many of the others, it belongs to a room without an owner. It was carefully decorated many years before I was born with treasures that my parents brought over from England. After my mother died, the door was closed and everything in the room would only receive attention from Nora's feather duster. And from me. I used to sit long hours in there, stretched across an abandoned ottoman on my stomach, listening to the ticking of a forgotten grandfather clock… and staring out at the adjacent lake, waiting for the arrival of the swans that visited us each spring. It was through that same window-"

"-Nice imagery!"

"Pastor Benson!" Sylvia very nearly growled, before saying through tightly gritted teeth, "I have the floor now. You must wait your turn!" She gave him a moment to calm down while she collected her thoughts, only proceeding after she had received his obedient nod. "It was through that same window, Boris, that you made your first appearance in my life. I could see, even from a distance, that you were solitary and quiet. The first time that I came downstairs to greet you, I saw that although your eyes did not seek companionship, they were home to a pained kindness that was so mysterious to me. You held me captive, you struck my curiosity in the same way that the swans did each year. You were right there, close enough to touch, but the world that you came from, of labor, of parcels and a fast-paced clockwork that you were constantly racing against seemed too distant from my own safe world for the gap between us to ever become bridged. And yet," she lifted my hand to her cheek and nuzzled it, contently, "after all of those years of wondering who you were and what your world looked like outside of my own estimations, I learned that what called you to me had a name after all. I learned that the same forces that beckoned the swans to bask in our sunlit lake when the earth was thawed and warm also brought you to me. Even after this refuge of ice melts away and you return to the war, I know that I won't have to wait long until you are with me again. We are two halves of one whole, Boris. Somehow, I knew this the day that I looked across the lake and saw you approaching with an armful of parcels-"

"-I can see it now!" Pastor Benson inevitably interrupted, unraveling the lump that had formed in my throat after hearing Sylvia's testament to her love for me. He hunched over, pantomiming his bizarre narration, "Master Bordon is carrying stacks upon stacks of parcels across the lawn of a dark and ominous mansion! He is winded! He is tired! He pounds his fist against the thick, wooden door. Once. _Bang!_ Twice. _Bang! Bang!_ Sylvia answers with a bottle of imported wine and a large platter of cheese! He reaches into his pocket and removes a strong worded love note and passes it to Sylvia before her father, the General, can see! _UNLEASH THE HOUNDS!_ The General cries, spotting the lovers through a hidden peephole that he carved in the eyeball of the woman with a fruit hat in the portrait on the wall. 'Oh, blast!' Sylvia squeals, 'Why couldn't I have courted a smarter lad who taps upon doors instead of bangs?!' 'It is for dramatic emphasis, my sweet little peach!' Master Bordon manages to say before twenty black hellhounds then emerge from the shadows, clawing at his trousers and munching at his ankles!" He dropped to the floor and started scratching and biting into the black leather of my boots. The General nudged him off me with the corner of his foot. "You can't kick a pastor! You'll be put in the stocks for that! I shall be first in line every morning to dump a pot of porridge on your head, Mr. Moneybags!" He rolled around, melodramatically on the floor for a few seconds before leaping to his feet.

"If you behave as though you are a dog, you will be treated as though you are a dog," the prideful General droned. He nodded to Sylvia and asked her to proceed.

She hesitated, staring at Pastor Benson with eyes as large as saucers. "What it all boils down to, Boris," a turn in my direction resurrected her lovely smile, "is an answer to a question that you asked me once. The time and place shall remain without description because we are in front of God and Papa and… well, we will all be better off not having that scene reenacted in a church," her father cleared his throat and a cloud of anxiety began to loom above our heads. Sylvia picked up her pace, but it didn't last. Her words soon became as indulgently melodic as they were before the rude interruption, "you asked me in that perfect, sweet manner that can only ever come from Boris-"

"Babcock…" The pastor hissed.

"Boris Babcock Bordon… 'why me'? Why, given all of our differences, could I love you? Such a question seemed unusual to me because I already knew how we fit together. I could already see the gaps that we would so effortlessly fill in one another's lives. Undying loyalty, honesty and devotion are what I give to you, my love. I will gladly and dutifully work with you all the days of my life to build a safe haven for our sweet son to grow and learn and flourish within. I will comfort you and care for you through every triumph and every trial during your life's lease upon this globe." Her smile flattened, but not in sadness. In severe sincerity, she glanced at our laced fingers and then dove past my eyes and into the lowest and most secretive depths of my heart as she articulated the final sentences of her perfect vows. "No wound, no ailment, not even death itself will pull me from your side. I will preserve my love for you in my soul, for it is the essence of all that I am and all that I will ever be."

She deserved a longer wave of digestive silence than she received. Not a second after she finished, Pastor Benson started a slow clap that quickened when nobody else joined in. "Tough act to follow, don't you think?! But I believe in you, Boy! Go for it, Boris! Out-vow the mighty vow-er! Remember, Cats, this is only round one! I have a jug of wine from a very, very good year in the cellar. It shall go to whoever can draw tears from our stone cold General first!"

I shook my head at him. All that mattered to me was Sylvia. Speaking in nearly any setting caused my nerves to wind tightly around my throat, but for her, I felt that I could speak clearly and from my heart. "Sylvia," her smile calmed me, encouraged me to continue despite my usual anxiety, "before you, I spent my days committed to a mundane routine. I would awaken in the dark, go through the motions and surface interactions of my lonesome career only to fall asleep in the same dark place and set the stage for the next morning. I lived the same day over and over, never growing, never wondering, only stopping every now and then to realize that I had gone weeks without speaking to anyone. Sometimes I forgot that I even had a voice at all. My life was colorless and soundless. It wasn't until you guided me out of the emptiness that I had created around myself, with only the touch of your bare hand and the sound of your music that I started to live. I didn't have a friend in all the world until you opened your heart and welcomed me in. My house was not a home until you graced it with your presence and played your violin beside my hearth. Everything that I am today, a soldier, a father, a man- I owe to you. You are the foundation of the life that I was always meant to lead. Every decision that I make until my dying day will be for the benefit and the protection of our family. I will provide for you and Sebastian and any other sons or daughters that God has in His plan for us. You will never be without food, shelter, music or love." Before my bashfulness cut in and silenced me, I forged the strongest promise of all, a promise that Sylvia and I would hold in our hearts and carry far past the grave. "You will never be without me."

"The General still isn't crying," Pastor Benson pretended to sniffle. "But I love you two! You just made my job that much easier!" He stopped hovering over Sylvia and I to pester the General. "Objections? Closing thoughts? I know, I'm doing this out of order. But that is the spirit of all things impromptu! Speaking of spirits and I don't mean holy spirits, Cats, I mean… wine and spirits… those strained, fermented grapes downstairs are starting to look pretty friendly right about now. Humiliated as they may be, they died for a good cause. Unlike raisins. So, let's wrap it up and marinate ourselves, shall we? Are we all happy?" He waited and, with slowness and confusion, the three of us nodded. "What about that nummy, nummy chubby baby booooy?!" Sebastian stuck the thumb of one of Sylvia's gloves in his mouth. "Truthfully, if you two want to do some post-wedding copulating in the baptistry later this evening… don't look so stunned, General, those love birds are experimenters and it's a beautiful thing … just leave that little dumpling with me!"

"We are all going to hell," General Ballard mumbled to his boots.

"Then by the power that was so brainlessly tossed my way by **FUN GOD!, FUN CHURCH!,** and this snowy apocalypse of a colony, I now pronounce you eternally stuck with one another. Because well… I am your personal chef and that was what you ordered. No refunds. No send backs for quick repairs. No bursting through my door ten years from now with complains such as, 'Everything that Mrs. Bordon cooks me tastes like an old, leathery shoe was stewing in it!" or 'Mr. Bordon keeps scream-snoring in his sleep!' I am a laid-back fellow, but the one thing that I won't stand for is a lack of gratitude. Now, schmutzen!"

"What is scream-snoring?" Sylvia asked, teasing me with her eyes.

I gave her a slight shrug and whispered, "I think it's when you scream and snore simultaneously. It sounds horribly obnoxious. Pastor Benson is probably speaking from experience." Her breezy laughter caressed my face as I drew closer.

"I will love you forever," the breath of her whisper played a sweet predecessor to the first kiss that we shared as husband and wife, "even if tonight marks the beginning of your life-long affliction with scream snoring!"

"As will I, Mrs. Bordon. As will I." Every cell in my body underwent a change. The shadows in the room, the coloring and temperature of sunlight shifted. Before, I could recognize the exact degree of warmth in Sylvia's kiss, every one of my senses knew and craved her. Now, they were heightened. Heightened as I fell deeper and deeper in love. Deeper than I ever imagined a soul could fall. As I held her in my arms, kissing her lightly and modestly at the altar, desire and admiration traded themselves for complete reliance. We were, to use my wife's words, two halves of one whole, joined together at last. Unbreakable. Inseparable. Sylvia and I would never part.


	19. Farewell, Sanctuary

Peace. No matter how hard I tried to hold on to this feeling, I knew that it was nothing more than a passing season in our lives. The first item on our agenda after the latest blizzard had indefinitely traveled out to sea and we had burrowed our way out of the snow, was to find food. General Ballard nominated himself for this task, being the most eager to leave the church. I was awake when he left, when he returned and when the wafting aroma of sizzling meat and fresh winter herbs rose to the upstairs corridors. Hunger- nay, starvation, would have had me flying down the stairs and into the kitchen, but I remained where I was.

She was dreaming, using my unflexed bicep for a pillow. I could barely see the flickering of visions dance across her eyelids, her deep breaths had subconsciously matched the softer give and take of air from the sleeping infant on her chest. She was feeding him when slumber carried them away. A sweet habit of theirs. The vision of Sebastian, fast asleep with his head on his mother's breast would bring me solace in the days to come as I slept alone in the barracks or on the hard ground with nothing but a tent between the elements and myself.

Sleep rarely found us until the early hours of the morning. From our wedding night forward, Sylvia and I kept everyone within a mile's radius awake. Not in the way that you might expect, no. We would sit on the floor, across from one another with Sebastian in whoever's lap was the most willing at the time; and play our violins until all our strength faded away like starlight when the sun first kisses the sky. She would devote roughly a quarter of our time to formal lessons. Then, she would ask me to play passages of melody from her work so that she might experiment with different harmonies. It was during those moments that the extent of her genius showed, her impeccable fluency in the language of music, of scales that she wouldn't have known to exist if she hadn't been so curious about global composers, astounded me.

The music that she created from her catalog of knowledge, bent and trained my ear in ways that I never would have imagined. She was a pioneer, a thoughtful architect of a nuanced artform, a gift to humanity and I was eager to contribute to her work in any way that she might allow. Even as she slept, I knew that Sylvia was dreaming in sound. Sometimes, she would awaken herself by humming and would ask me to pass her a bit of parchment so that she might capture her new thought on paper before temporarily parting from the world once more.

"You have done this," she would remind me on occasion, "you have created a space for me in which I feel perfectly safe. It is in your loving presence that my best work emerges." A muse. She believed that I was her muse, though I could scarcely understand the how and why of this statement. But the influence that our marriage had on her- on all three of us, was undeniable. My beautiful sylph was metamorphosing and could only remain in hiding for so much longer. We spoke of Vienna often. Of our future travels and the plans that we had for our family once the war was won.

"Your music will take you places," I would vow when she was doubting or simply in need of the encouragement, "the world is at your fingertips." I knew that this was true. Her dreams became my own, of her anonymity melting away. She brought me to a new platform of understanding, of how unfair it was that she would have to remain unattached to her creations. If anyone could change the course of history for other women who were tired of hiding in silence, it would be my Sylvia.

She hummed a note, then two and her ruffled, golden head tilted against the bend in my arm. I suspected that she might have caught a whiff of the meal that was being prepared on the first floor of the building, but she was still too comfortable, too far from consciousness to rationalize location or even her own hunger. Selfishly, I lowered the volume of my breaths. I permitted my eager lips to traipse her silken shoulders and the spiraling, sunny lengths of her hair, but only lightly. I wanted us to remain where we were for just a while longer. Yet, the world around us was calling us to emerge from our quiet room. Footsteps. I shielded Sylvia's modesty with the corner of our blanket just in time before Pastor Benson peeped in without knocking. He trotted across the room, carrying a bowl of piping hot pork and a colorful medley of sliced peppers. By the proud expression on his face, I wagered that he had tried his own recipe on what goods the General had managed to forage.

"I come bearing gifts!" He trilled, slipping the bowl on our bedside windowsill.

I had never placed him as having a culinary mind. Between my inability to eat anything solid for my first few months in the church and the cavalcade of snowstorms we had endured, it stood to reason that such a skill would go unnoticed.

"I should say so!" I whispered, trying not to disturb my resting darlings. "It smells superb." He stood on the tips of his toes, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of Sebastian, no doubt. "It was very kind of you to bring it up to us," still nothing. Our silly friend had ulterior motives. "Thank you."

"I give you food." He said, nodding slowly and wringing his hands. "You give me the baby, yes?"

"Later on," I whispered, gesturing with my spare hand for him to lower his voice. "He whines less if we let him wake up on his own."

With that, Pastor Benson reclaimed the undeniably delicious smelling food, mumbled something that I was most likely fortunate not to hear, and dashed out of the room with his nose in the air. I put my chin on Sylvia's shoulder, shut my eyes and felt at peace once more.

"I would have taken the food if I were you," Sylvia whispered to me, searching beneath the blanket for my hand. Yet, another new habit of ours that I would have to savor for as long as I could. Unless she could feel me watching her, she would never know how deeply I loved witnessing her first moments of consciousness in the morning. Every day without fail, she would keep her eyes closed and look for my hand with only the help of her fingertips. Of course, I usually helped her, too.

If Sebastian was on her chest, which he was this time, she would hold onto my hand where she found it. On mornings when he was in my arms, she would guide it just below her collarbone and there our hands would stay, touched lightly to her quickening heart as she departed from her various dreams of notes and strings, concert halls and sailing ships. She turned her head, just far enough to see half of my face, to capture my smile and return it with those petal soft lips. "Why are you so handsome?"

"Because," I laughed, still beaming, "because… you are in dire need of spectacles!"

A chuckle. Light and pretty. "Oh, Sweetheart," she rocked closer and pressed her forehead to my own, "what I wouldn't give to stop every clock and remain right here, right now until the end of time."

I wanted to tell her how tightly our thoughts had aligned. But instead, I drew near, as close as I could possibly be and listened to the pounding of her delicate heart, the hollow channels in her body that her breath passed through and I could hear a faint hum of dissonance between the three of us. Our life forces were so deeply intertwined, so dependent upon one another. Every grain of sand in the hourglass was magnified before me as I contemplated our frailty, how temporary our lives were, and the honest fact that I would surely die without Sylvia and Sebastian. I wanted to tell her this, but the only semblance of words that I could find were, "I love you." So, told her that, instead. Good God, did I tell her. Over and over until she saw the arrival of tears in my eyes and soothed me with her kiss.

We, too, were on the verge of awakening, of re-entering the world, of journeying back to New Jersey, turning my house into a home for the three of us in what little time I had left before returning to duty. Still sleeping, the baby hunted sightlessly for nourishment, the same way that Sylvia had looked for my hand. I watched as she helped him latch. Those beautiful hands, sculpted by God to create music, were suited just as perfectly for motherhood. She was so gentle with Sebastian, so willing to guide him and give him her breast that was still tired and swollen from their last feeding.

"You must be hungry," I said, sliding my arm out from underneath her shoulders and massaging the back of her head. "I'll try to barter with Pastor Benson for some breakfast."

"You have been promising him some quality time with Sebastian before we leave." She shrugged. "That should earn us… how many scoops?"

I sat upright and chuckled lowly, "Scoops? You know as well as I, time spent with Sebastian is priceless! One afternoon with the baby. That is all. It would be a bargain to ask for the entire pot of whatever glorious concoction they have down there!" A chill descended upon me. Caused, I am certain, by moving out of her sphere of warmth.

"Well, there's the loss of hearing on both sides to consider. Besides, we should make some effort to normalize Sebastian. I'm going to need my arms when you return to," her smile dissipated, "well… let us hope not to Boston. Boston is too far away."

As I stood, I lowered my lips to her brow. "One step at a time, Mrs. Bordon."

This might sound strange, but it hit me the hardest when I left them there. To do something so simple and essential as collecting the first plate of real food that we had eaten in over a month, no less. I could see it in her eyes, that Sylvia was having trouble accepting the notion of, as she had put it, "normalization" for our son. It was easy for her to imagine me as a baby when she looked at Sebastian. Indeed, his appearance was hauntingly similar to my own and behavior-wise, I was just as sensitive and shy. But I had no one to hold on to in the same way that Sebastian had Sylvia and I. I wanted to give him what I never had as a child and that was why I was so lenient with his need for constant contact. The thought of Sebastian in his own corner of our home, sleeping alone, learning to walk, talk and think for himself still seemed decades away. But his transition from a needy newborn to a full-sized healthy infant was well underway. It was up to us to help him grow, even if that meant breaking the three of us out of our current rhythm.

Pastor Benson would be a perfect candidate to ease him out of our arms. He was the only person we knew who could withstand the hysterical crying. When I reached the kitchen, I told him that Sebastian was as good as his for the afternoon. For this, I earned two forks and a plate that was piled so high with pork and peppers that it could have kept a Banastre Tarleton-sized man full for a month! Of course, Sylvia and I ate like we had never seen food before in our lives and it vanished in less than five minutes.

"Have you started on that list your father requested?" I asked, taking Sebastian while she skipped around the room in her nightgown, searching for a clean dress. She shook her head, moaning. Making it known that she didn't want to worry about such a thing right now. "He is being very generous, you know."

"It's a power tactic, Boris. He is trying to tell me that the two of us cannot earn solid wages by giving us furniture. He is also admitting to that little trip that he made to your house back in April. How else would he have known that it was so… so…"

"Under-furnished?" I teased. "Assuming he is making a statement of any kind, Darling, it is that my home is in shambles and it needs some prettying up! But it is your call…"

"I knew that I shouldn't have mentioned the lakeside room on the second floor in our vows. He said that if I don't make him a list of what we need in our home, he'll simply have everything in there wrapped up and shipped to us! Can you believe him?" Angry, adorable, animated. She was precious when her emotions boiled over to pure feistiness, but I felt badly for upsetting her. "Everything in that room is there for a reason. He spoils his daughters with dresses, he spoiled my mother with fine home furnishings. He's been looking for an excuse to rid himself of her possessions for as long as I can remember… ugh… where is my violin?! Where is my staff paper?! I need to dabble!"

Hunting for an outfit was no longer an issue. I dropped the topic entirely and within a half an hour of tending to her newest concerto, Sylvia and I both forgot how miserably I had spoiled our perfect morning. Pastor Benson arrived for Sebastian shortly after, which seemed to throw salt on our wounds. We had a small lesson. Although, in reality, we were both listening hard through the walls as our son shrieked and wailed in the arms of his "sitter". He tried nearly everything to bring cheer to the woeful baby. Clogging in the chapel, banging out clumsy tunes on the pipe organ and, my personal favorite, trying to match pitch and harmonize with poor little Sebastian's cries.

The General came upstairs twice. The first visit that he made was to inquire about the racket and the second was to help Sylvia pack her belongings. The plan was to leave early the next morning and oh, how the pressure was building! Although the snow had been either pounded into the earth or placed in high stacks along the streets outside, the surrounding hills and countryside appeared treacherous and untouched from the upstairs windows. All around, we could see prints in the snow where bears that had traveled from higher elevations had prowled. We were all terribly frightened, although we kept our fears properly concealed. We were still deep in the months of winter and we were likely looking at out one opportunity to head home before the next debilitating storm could arrive and render the streets unrecognizable once more. It had to be done.


	20. Bloodlust

The sun was due to rise, but we knew that it would be eaten alive by the grim morning sky before it had a chance to warm the earth. I gave Sylvia my coat to wear, not even an hour into our journey and I had no intention of asking for her to return it, even though she and Sebastian were traveling in the wagon while I sat on the outside with General Ballard. The deep slice down my chest came back to haunt me as I struggled to take in the frozen air. In protest of freezing over, my lungs rejected what breaths I drew in, returning every exhale to the hostile atmosphere as a steamy cough. I held my musket to my torso, looking for any movement in the dark trees along the whitewashed road. A black bear had trailed us for a quarter of a mile and although he was small, I was asked to watch for him and fire if he came too close.

The General's tactful bartering (or rather, his bottomless pockets), landed us with the sturdiest wagon that I had ever seen and yet, even it took poorly to the rugged terrain. The back wheel on the righthand side would constantly lock up and drag and we did not have the means to repair it. Apart from remaining watchful for the bear, I looked for roadside homes and small hamlets in the woods. I knew better. This was the same road that I had traveled with my comrades and would surely travel again before too long. I knew how isolated and vulnerable to the elements we were. The threat of highway robbers or rogue militiamen had reduced drastically, yes, but danger- old and new, was present. If any unfavorable turn of events should occur, we were on our own.

"Sir," I inquired over the scratching noise of our one stubborn wheel, "the last time that we went through a clearing, I thought I saw chimney smoke." He growled under his breath and snapped the reins. My paranoia had caused me to cry wolf more times than poor General Ballard could handle. Every sight, every sound could either aid us in fixing the wagon or deliver us to our doom. But fate would have it that a line of slender smoke, barely visible as it streaked the grey sky, could be seen when the overhead branches grew sparse once more. "There. Do you see it?"

"Probably a farm," he said casually, "they won't help us if they are rebels, Boris. You know that."

"Then you can stay in the back with Sylvia and the baby, or I can pretend that you are my prisoner." My argument softened as he sneered at me. "Or we could simply stash out coats. We have options! The wagon cannot go much longer without repair."

"Of course, it can…"

That was the last that we spoke of it. At least, until after we rolled (nay, scooted) past the smoke and it vanished on the horizon. While fording a frozen, narrow stream the wheel rode up against a flat rock and the friction tore out several spokes. It quaked and wobbled for several minutes after we reached solid ground before shattering completely. The wagon tilted, and its side became lodged in a snowbank. Sylvia tumbled out into the powder, holding the crying baby in her arms. It helped to know that the snow had softened their fall, but I leapt down and raced to where she sat, shivering and extremely irritated.

"You should have listened to Boris, Papa!" Sylvia hissed, rocking and hushing Sebastian. "I hope you remember where that farm was because you have earned yourself a nice, long walk in the cold!"

I pulled Sylvia to her feet and, without even needing her request, pulled her violin from out of the wagon so that she could thoroughly examine it for any damage. "I will go. If they are rebels, they will be more likely to help a boy from New Jersey." I said, rubbing Sylvia's shoulders and kissing her brow. "Stay where you are and build a fire. It should only be large enough to keep you warm and for me to see from a distance."

General Ballard snorted defiantly. He would not take orders from anyone, especially his tragically vacuous son-in-law. "Save that stamina of yours for the war, Boy. I have fought battles in blizzards and have more mileage on my boots than all your commanders combined. Stay with your wife and for the love of God, silence that shrieking child!"

He was off before I had a chance to argue. It crossed my mind to go after him, but I would never leave my family alone in such conditions. Sylvia and I formed a barrier around Sebastian with our bodies and it wasn't until he stopped crying that I started to build our fire.

"It won't take Papa long to return," she told me, leaning her back against the corner of the broken wagon. "He heard you coughing earlier. I know he has a strange way of showing it, but he cares for you."

"I could have handled it. A good, long trek after cowering in that damned church for all those months is exactly what I need."

She sighed and moved closer to the fire's warmth. "I'm perfectly aware that I don't help matters much. But we should be gentler with Papa. It wasn't easy for him to allow us to marry and now that we are returning home, he has even more weight stacking on his shoulders." I nodded, gesturing for her to continue. It would be a while before the General would return and perhaps it would behoove me to gain a deeper understanding of his contrariness. "When he arrived at the infirmary in New York, he told me that Celeste was impregnated out of wedlock, too. He wrote to Banastre so many times and received no reply. We feared the worst for a while, but his notoriety continued to grow. Banastre abandoned Celeste and snubbed my entire family. Papa loves his daughters. He puts us before everything else in the world. Our happiness is his. With the snow bringing the post to a halt, I can only entertain how anxious he must be about Celeste and that poor, fatherless child. If only I had known that she and I were going through the same trial, I would have written to her. Papa wanted to hold our family together and somehow, it has still managed to break apart."

I moved nearer, carefully considering what words I might use in my reply. Scandal followed Tarleton wherever he went and although it pains me to admit this, the dilemma that befell Celeste hardly surprised me. But I kept this to myself. "I watched you and your sisters grow, you know. Your family may be changing and facing new trials," I told her, "but I don't believe that it is breaking apart."

"It is going to be so strange to see her again. Now that Sebastian is part of the picture and you and I are married. I don't know when she was due. I might already be an aunt for all I know! You and I are going to be invited for tea, dinners, parties… there is no way of avoiding that! Can you imagine the tensions that might arise when we visit the estate?!"

I closed my hands around hers. "Let us look at it as a blessing. Sebastian will have a cousin. Someone to play with and look forward to seeing. In turn it will be good for Celeste's son or daughter to have a playmate, too." The thought of a petite Banastre Tartleton wreaking havoc on Sebastian caused me to wince. Thankfully, this reaction went unnoticed. "As for you father-" the faint ruffling of snow beneath feet pulled me from my consolation. Fear prickled the back of my neck and the tops of my shoulders like tiny, freezing thorns. We were being approached from behind and those footsteps were too stealthy, too multiple to belong to a man or even a single creature. "Don't move," I whispered to Sylvia as I drew my fingers from her hand and towards my pistol, "keep Sebastian close and on my command, move behind the campfire, find a long branch and set it ablaze."

As I turned, I prepared to shoot. The training that I had received, to move with calmness and agility came back to me as though it had never left. There were five of them exactly and more on the way should the largest wolf have the chance to howl to their companions. I shot at him first and he bounded towards me, unwounded. The others circled around us and I held tightly to Sylvia's wrist, knowing that the first tactic to keep her safe was thwarted. "Stay put," I yelled over my second shot, "stay between me and the fire."

Again, my aim was poor. But the crack of the firing pistol caused the other four wolves to cower. I paused to reload and Sylvia knew that I needed help long before I could ask. She held Sebastian with her left arm and with her right, she started to hurl large rocks at my opponent. It only took one try for her to strike the large grey wolf in his side. He yelped, taking another stone to his ribcage. I aimed, right between those soulless, pale eyes and shot him down. The instinct to protect my wife and child clouded my senses. She had proved herself to be an asset to my survival and yet, I backed her into the shelter of the wagon where my musket sat and told her, yet again, to stay.

I should have known that Sylvia would not listen. As my hopeless battle commenced, she dismantled the coverage and used every ounce of strength in her body to flip the wooden structure over completely. With all four corners on the ground, it was thick and heavy enough to hide Sebastian beneath. The wolves would have to dig far into the earth if they wanted to reach him. For now, he was safe. Sylvia's aim was better than I had originally suspected. She inflicted enough damage on my current assailant for me to reload and make my second fatal shot. I took on two while the final wolf tried his luck with Sylvia. I would have surely seen her destroy him, had I not been knocked to the ground.

Despair befell me and for the first time during this terrifying ambush, I truly suspected that we did not stand a chance. That we three would perish horribly, grotesquely and when General Ballard returned with a new wheel, he would find nothing but snow and blood. The small dagger that I carried on my side would be just thick and long enough to piece the thick skin of both animals. They worked together, reading my thoughts, pinning me down and keeping my hands from accessing the blade. When they had me exactly where they wanted me, the most aggressive of the two wolves moved in for the kill. I can still see the wildness in his eyes and the glimmer of his teeth, sharp as knives with faint inward hooks like his claws. He was designed to destroy and devour, to bite into his victims and only leave go after every ounce of life had been squeezed out of them by his mighty jaw.

I turned to look at the wagon, to ensure that Sebastian's hiding place had not been compromised. It had not. I could hear him fussing, but it was light. He almost seemed unaware of the danger that we were in and it soothed me to know that my final thought, a hope, really, was that my son stood the best chance of us all. Sylvia, on the other hand, had fallen from my view. My last words would be for her, a hopeless plea that I knew she would not follow.

Instinct, not wisdom took over and my voice rose to a demanding yell, "Sylvia! Run!"

She ran, but not towards safety. Once her wolf was down, she dashed to where I lay and shoved the beast off me before his fangs could obliterate my jugular. She had presented me with the opportunity that I needed, to stab and kill the creature to my right. We were down to one, but this wolf, this terrible black-coated fiend would not give so easily. He seemed to take the thirst for my own blood and stake it on her. With his front foot, he pushed her into the ground and targeted the soft flesh of her arms. She didn't scream or show any sign of pain as her blood clouded the fabric of her sleeve. Instead, Sylvia reached for a large, sharp stone that we had piled earlier for the fire.

She clubbed him several times between the eyes and ears. When the wolf began to whimper, she showed no mercy. She only struck over and over until the damage was great enough to snatch his balance away. Never before had I seen such determination to end a life and I could tell that what she was doing was just as innate as my drive to protect her. She was defending her family and this brutal display did not end until she saw the wolf's skull split open against the earth. Sebastian was still crying. We pulled the latch on the back of the wagon and crawled inside to warm him. With the baby between us, we loaded our weapons and watched the grounds, hardly taking the time to assess our injuries.

"That is your bow hand," I said finally, catching sight of her pooling blood. "Let me wrap it." She did not protest and even tilted her arm towards me. Her mind was elsewhere, fixated on looking for the remainder of the pack. "We will be ready next time. Try to relax."

"I left the baby, Boris," she wrapped Sebastian's blanket tighter. "If the other wolves turned up when you and I were busy with the others, they would have been able to dig for him and- oh, God! What kind of a mother am I?!"

I silenced her by stopping a tear with my lips as it ventured down her cold cheek. "You did what your instincts told you to do at the time. That is how any form of combat works. Try not to overthink it."

"I should have stayed with him and protected him. Instead I-"

"You chose to fight," I said, tying off the bit of fabric that I had taken from my shirt and wrapped around her wrist. "You made a shelter for your son and saved your husband's life. We are only alive right now because of what you did for us. You are a wonderful mother, Sylvia. A perfect mother."

I reached for her hand and she accepted it, but the remorse in her eyes did not leave. She didn't move, didn't blink for what felt like hours. The corpses of the wolves along with the growing fire served as a defense for any passing beasts. But we remained perfectly vigilant until, for the second time that day, we were approached. This time, the footsteps were accompanied by human voices. Male. Colonial accents lived on two of their tongues while the third we recognized as General Ballard. It is most likely that he was the first to see the dreadful picture that our campsite had become because he broke into a sprint and started to call his daughter's name.

"We are here, Papa! Beneath the wagon!" She called, refusing to climb out of our safe space just yet.

The General poked his chapped, reddened face inside and offered to pull us out. I bundled Sebastian up and placed him in his grandfather's rough hands before helping Sylvia emerge. "Wolves?!" He asked me, donning the same expression as Sylvia did when she was both rattled and confused. "You fought off wolves for Sebastian and Silly?"

I touched my hand to my wife's shoulder. Her cloudy green eyes bounced around from tree to tree, her fists were tightly clenched, and she continued to tremble, even at my touch. " _Silly_ was the one who saved us."

"Ah, and I suppose you were the one who sabotaged our wagon, then?" He gave me what appeared to be a sarcastic smile before introducing the two men who had agreed to help us. Given the similarities in their appearances and differences in age, I wagered that they were father and son. "This is Silas Falco. Loyalist. His family owns the farm that we passed earlier."

Silas turned his attention from the surrounding battleground and nodded. He was a tall and spidery fellow with a crooked nose and eyes that were just as brown as his curls of hair. "Captain Bordon," he said, gruffly. "General Ballard told me that you hail from New Jersey. I suppose that makes us neighbors, does it not?" I shook his hand, but only after he offered it. He seemed friendly enough, but there was some unspeakable feeling that stirred in the pit of my stomach when I took in his brooding son. "This here is my boy, Barnabas. He's likely to be the most help to your wagon. We had a bull break through a barn door last summer and he fixed it up good as new in one afternoon."

"Is that right?" I crossed my arms over my chest. It was difficult to say what Barnabas was looking at as he stood across from me, silent and still as a predatory spider in a garden vine. His eyes were locked, targeting his victim with the same ferocity as I had witnessed earlier from the hungry wolves. I stepped back and traced his line of vision as Silas turned to speak with the General. Neither of them knew what was happening, even Sylvia herself was too busy reliving the earlier assault to understand. The boy, barely old and strong enough to give his life for the crown possessed the same bloodlust that my enemies had donned in battle. I tried to decode it and found after nearly a minute of watching his face that what I was seeing was malice fused with desire. For Sylvia, _my_ Sylvia.


	21. Not While I'm Around

It was an uncomfortable feeling, being the only person in my party who did not wish to stay with the Falco Family. Sylvia remained distant and aloof as we trudged. I positioned myself between her and Barnabas, wanting so badly to speak to her that my mind was nearly exploding when we reached their home. My conscience jabbed me, told me that we would have been better off if one of the wolves had invited us to their den for the night. All that I could do, it seemed was ensure that we keep to our own respective corner as we warmed ourselves at their hearth.

Their farmhouse was handsome and beautifully kept. This further roused my suspicions about them. No woman was present- no wife, no maid, no daughters. Just Silas and his son, living in a home so spotless that it hardly seemed lived in at all. Looking around the place, however, it was difficult to believe that they were farmers. I had never seen furnishings or décor quite like theirs before. Everything was dark and admittedly, beautiful, like relics stolen from a wicked sorcerer's tower or a gothic cathedral of old. General Ballard seemed seduced by the deep burgundy curtains and the strategically placed statuettes of crying saints and martyrs. The occasional animal skull or bone was worked into the landscape, but you had to hunt for them; much like the single taxidermized wolf head which hung watchfully amidst a perfectly spaced line of stormy colored paintings in thick, jewel frames.

Candles were lit, sustenance was brought out from the kitchen and the men chortled stupidly over tea while Barnabas watched me wrap Sylvia's arm with a fresh bit of cloth. Neither of us ate or drank, we simply sat side by side and calmed Sebastian, who was not taking well to the cold, clean environment. At least I had him on my side!

I thought at first that Sylvia was ill, that she had lost more blood than I thought she had or that the wolf's fangs had transferred some fast-acting illness to her bloodstream. It wasn't until I offered to hold the baby that I realized what was truly wrong with her. She was still internalizing the moment that she left our son behind to fight the wolves at my side. I could almost see the scene playing over in her eyes as I tried to pull him away. Sylvia held him tighter, so tight that she seemed to temporarily forget his fragility.

"Darling," I smoothed my hands over the muscles in her arms and they started to relax. "Sebastian is safe. We are all safe." Those words were so challenging to say, especially under our young host's hateful gaze. "My wife is not well," I announced to Silas and the reclining General. "She must lie down at once."

This caught General Ballard's attention- though he might have grumbled at the thought of having to part with his steaming cup of Earl Grey. He stood and headed past the neatly strewn maze of ebony furniture to check on his daughter. "Silly?" He asked, crouching in front of us. Sylvia had placed her cheek against Sebastian's chest. The darling baby, so unaware of his mother's despair, twisted his fingers throughout her golden hair and waved its ends around, playfully. "What ever is the matter, you ridiculous girl!?"

"She is shaken up from earlier, Sir," I said, "we both are."

"You and your wife are welcome to stay in our guest room," Silas called, unmoving, in his claw-footed armchair. "Of course, Barnabas has a fireplace in his room. If you don't mind how nocturnal of a creature the boy is!"

"The guest room would be lovely!" I managed to slip that in before any protests could arise. Seeing how unaware Sylvia had become, she might have asked for the heated room! But I was determined to stay by her side all night and, after our stay in the drafty church, knew that I could keep her warm without any trouble at all. After asking for directions, I guided her to the cool, deep featherbed in the guest room that, like everything else in the house, was fresh and new. It was welcoming in the sense that it was alarmingly plain, no skulls were present. Just a few pretty candelabras atop a glistening windowside writing desk. I felt that I _might_ be able to become comfortable there for a while. "There you are, my darlings," I smoothed the thick blanket over them and tried my very best to warm the cold cotton. "Now you are safe and sound."

Neither Sylvia nor Sebastian seemed content. They both looked around the unfamiliar, dark room that was lighted only by a shallow pool of moonlight from the uncovered window. "Boris," she muttered, taking my hand in hers, "did you make decisions at Bunker Hill like I did today? Did you follow any courses blindly that might have brought death to your men, but didn't?" I had to look away. I wanted to be honest with my wife always, but to tell her about the platoon that I was responsible for and had so gravely compromised would only worsen her fragile state of mind. "What if we had lost our baby? It would have been my fault."

"Sylvia, there is no outcome in which we would have lost Sebastian. You would have found a way to save him, even if the rest of the pack found and attacked us. You always manage to surprise me. Every day, it seems, I learn something wonderful and new. Hidden talents, darling quirks, deep secrets and courage, my God, Sylvia! What courage you have! If only you could see yourself through my eyes."

A gentle smile started to appear on her beautiful face, "Use my own words against me, why don't you?" She nearly chuckled and I could see that my wife was not so far away, after all. She calmed down once we were situated and alone but grew wary when I walked over to the door and checked for a lock. No such mechanism was present. Nothing that the heavy desk in the corner could not fix! I dragged it across the floor without delay. "Boris? What the devil?"

I only stopped once the door was completely covered and headed back to our comfortable albeit … well, uncomfortable… bed. "No locks. When one lives alone, they learn to require locks. Which reminds me, when I leave for Boston or New York or wherever in the hell I am called to, remember to lock the door at night."

Her eyes might have been glazed and pained, but her sharp intelligence hadn't left them. "You are bluffing, my dear." I moved onto my side, closing around her like a protective wall directly across from the desk and door. She allowed me to slip my arm beneath her head, a means of support that she preferred over even the loveliest pillow. "Snuggles won't help you, Sweetheart. This is ridiculous! What if you or I need to use the outhouse in the middle of the night? Hm?"

"The outhouse!" I covered my mouth, mockingly. "Yet, another surprise, Mrs. Bordon! I always believed you to be more of a chamber pot girl!" Sylvia's perfectly groomed eyebrow slanted into one of her infamously clever arches and I knew at once that she had me cornered. I inched forward and whispered in her ear with upmost discretion, "I find Silas Falco's son to be… terrifying." To my surprise, she erupted with laughter and very nearly started rolling around on her back! "I'm happy to amuse you, Darling, but-"

"-Barnabas?!" I shushed her, but to no avail. She continued in full-volume, "You could squash that unwashed, pubescent ball of angst like a bug with your baby toe, Boris Babcock Bordon!"

"Did you see the way that he was looking at you?!"

"Oh, if that sets you off, you should consider it a blessing that you were never in the same room as Banastre Tarleton and I! We invited him over for dinner once, and when Papa wasn't looking, he would move his eyes from sister to sister and lick his lips like a damned hungry mongrel! I had to excuse myself, but nearly vomited there at the table! If you find Master Falco's behavior distasteful, just imagine how Tarleton acted at his age!"

I sunk my lips into her hair, inhaling the soft, smoky fragrance that our campfire had infused it with. She always smelled so sweet, naturally, without any help from masking florals. The smell of her flesh brought back to earth and relaxed me. I lusted for her often. Hungered, even. But when I wished to consume her, I also wished to be consumed by her. A mutual exchange of love was what we gave to one another. Anger, obsession, the urge to tear her from limb to limb and drink her hot, sweet blood was so animalistic that it only ever occurred to me as a passing thought when we journeyed to the summit of our passion. Once that climb had reached its close, it was only us. Panting and clutching, soaring high above our own mortality. That tiny wink of destructiveness would come and go and though it helped me to dive deeper and hold her tighter, it was only a small part of our lovemaking and a faint star in the endless firmament of our love. That was the only time when such a thought could be projected upon Sylvia. By me. By no other man.

Carried away by this thought, I remained where I was. Breathing her in. Graciously appreciating her presence as I revisited my momentarily demonic urges in our otherwise heavenly unions. "Do you trust me?"

"Only on Tuesdays." Yet again, she grounded me. Only this time, it was with her humor. I laughed, and she laughed, too. "Of course, I trust you."

"Then let us resort to chamber pots tonight and press your father so that we might leave for our home in New Jersey early tomorrow." I glanced over. Her bandaged wrist and fingers were softly massaging our sleeping child's back. "Deal?"

Her hand stopped where it was, and she gave me an adorably calculating look. "Chamber pots it is."

We shook on it, nuzzled even closer than before and slept contently until dawn, knowing that we were safe in one another's arms. Sebastian woke up crying shortly after daybreak. This most likely spurred from the noisiness of the kitchen with which we shared a wall. I heard that the General and Silas were engaged in friendly banter and hunted for clues in their conversation to help me better understand why that unlikely pair took so well to one another.

Shushing Sebastian was usually easy. The sound of my voice was amusing to him, so I would either hum, recite or simply ramble and watch as his large blue eyes banished their earlier tears and sparkled with fascination at every sound that I produced. I changed and swaddled him, then moved over to the window to let him look outside. Sebastian loved windows. Almost as much as I loved watching as he took in the great big world around him. Slowly but surely, his shyness was shifting into curiosity. It was in that quiet fearlessness that he drifted slightly from being my double and displayed what I loved best about his mother.

It was light enough outside to see the wagon that Barnabas had dragged in and spent the night repairing. His craftsmanship appeared to surpass even his father's praise, but I couldn't bring myself to trust it. Barnabas appeared to be hard at work and I watched him, just as intensely as he had watched me tend to Sylvia's arm. When he sensed my presence and looked up, I backed away from the window quickly enough to remain unseen.

This brought me to a far more pleasant view of my Sylvia who had remained undisturbed. Her breaths were slow and heavy. Yet, that was the only weight that she carried. Between the soft coverage of the blanket and the featherbed, she seemed to float. Light and airy as a snowflake or a particle of down. I knelt and touched my lips to hers and waited as her breath warmed my body and soul. I was locked in a season of Sylvia's own creation, comfortable as mid-summer and glorious as springtime. In her sweet, intoxicating breath, I found the taste and fragrance of every kiss we had ever shared. I would gladly trade every atmosphere on the globe from the crystalline air, high above the tallest mountain's timberline to the spicy breezes that dance freely across distant exotic shorelines; if only to inhale and exhale Sylvia and have her by my only life force. She didn't know that I was there, she couldn't feel the rupturing of love in my chest as I innocently claimed her silent mouth and retreated to behold her full visage.

"Was Sebastian hungry earlier?" She mumbled, not even half awake.

"No. Just a touch restless, but he is much better now. You sleep."

She adjusted herself with a tiny sway and as she turned the side of her long, fair neck came into view. " _I'm_ hungry."

I laughed quietly. When we were living in the church, she took her daily meal in the morning and I was often the one to bring it to her along with the means for washing. "Judging by what I am hearing and smelling from the next room over, I'd guess old Silas is frying up sausages and bacon. Which would you prefer?"

"Not porridge."

I repeated her request with a cheerful nod. I will surely die a happy man if I never see a bowl of porridge again! Or have to listen to clogging. "Not porridge it is!" As I started to move, I noticed that she had grabbed onto the end of my shirt. "Sylvia? Mrs. Bordon?" Nothing. Only a light snore and a moan as I started to unlatch her fingers. "I cannot go shirtless."

"You should always be shirtless!" Her hand dropped like a weight and I assumed that the dream she had only barely abandoned, requested her presence once more. "Leave Sebastian and I will try to feed him," and it was so. I handed the sleepy-eyed child to her and caught an identical expression from his mother. "Thank you, Boris," she whispered as she cradled him.

I glanced out the window before leaving the room and Barnabas appeared to still be occupied with his task. That did not halt the overwhelming anxiety that I felt as I pushed the desk away and left Sylvia and Sebastian alone. My eyes went immediately to the wolf head which hung several feet down the hallway. Its eyes and the eyes of the neighboring portraits seemed to follow my every move as I walked into the kitchen.

"Good news, Boris, m'Boy!" The General sang, holding a long, greasy strip of bacon beneath his chin. "Our wagon is as good as new! Tell that daughter of mine not to dawdle! That means no screeching on that blasted violin or taking more time than necessary to make herself presentable. We are leaving for New Jersey after breakfast!"

While General Ballard was lost in his rapturous monologue, Silas prepared a platter (yes, a _platter_ ) of meat for Sylvia and I. "I hope you and the Misses are a carnivorous bunch! We slaughter every Monday, so this is nice and fresh," he proclaimed, "why, both of 'em were up on all fours only yesterday!"

I missed porridge already.

"Oh, and Boris," General Ballard called after me as I turned with the impossibly large stack of food that I no intention of consuming, "before we leave, Silas would like for you to have a word with Barnabas. The boy is a bit…" he twirled his hands, midair, searching for the correct term. I had several on the tip of my tongue that he was free to use! "A bit… astray. If he could hear your story, about how profoundly serving in the King's Army has changed your life… perhaps?"

I gave a quick shrug before nodding in agreement. If anything, speaking with Barnabas would prevent him from bothering my wife and child between then and the time that we were to leave. "I would be happy to speak with Master Falco, Sir."

Once they were out of earshot, I started to rehearse what I would say. It would take a while to pluck out all of the threats that I had lined up in my mind. Perhaps a meditative bite or two of hot food and a quick conversation with my wife would assist me in constructing a heartfelt invitation. After all, Barnabas could kill a rebel just by looking at him! I weighed my options. Any request that the General had for me, I would gladly follow through with. What if I had misjudged Barnabas? With my mind churning, I opened the door to the room that held my comfort, my solace.

Sylvia's eyes were closed in light sleep, her slender thumb made spirals across Sebastian's back as he fed. It was my favorite sight in all the world. Their innocence, their vulnerability, their complete dependence on one another for contentment and life was the very essence of my joy. I slipped our ridiculous breakfast on the desk and went to hold them, for just a while, but I was stopped by a dark figure looming in my periphery. I don't know how, I don't know when, but Barnabas had crept into the room while I was away and was watching them.

 **A/N: No, the Falcos aren't vampires. Yes, they are weird and a tiny bit random, but they are also important. Just remember, as the saying from** ** _Twin Peaks_** **goes, "the owls are not what they seem." *cackle and cue lightning flash***


	22. There's No Place Like Home

"Outside," I snarled at once to the shadowy interloper in the corner.

It did not take much to shake him from his web and cause him to scurry stealthily across the room and out the door. I followed Barnabas, steadying my watch on Sebastian and Sylvia who were both completely unaware of what had unfolded while they were resting. The General boomed a merry greeting as we strode past the entrance to the kitchen. I nodded, smiled, stuffed both fists into the pockets of my coat and made for the front door where Barnabas stood, waiting for me. My cheeks were burning and most likely scarlet with rage when we stepped outdoors. He saw my current state and started to sneer.

"You listen to me and you listen good," I backed him into a windowless corner once the front door clicked shut. "If I even think that I see you leering at my wife again, I don't care if your father or the General are present, I will draw my pistol and shoot you clean through each incriminating eye. Do I make myself clear?"

The sneer stuck to his cadaverous face like a leach. His dark eyes, his voice, his breath were as smooth and cold as the winter wind. "You'd best start praying to the Good Lord to protect that baby boy of yours."

A chill slivered down my spine, "I beg your pardon?" If I had my weapon on me, you can bet that it would have been pointed right under that skeletal jaw of his.

"How old is he?"

"That is none of your concern," I snapped. "You stay away from them. Both of them. Or I will be forced to put my training to good use."

"Can't be more than, what? A month? Maybe two?" His dark eyes moved to my fists and the sneer resurfaced. "Do you know how much General Ballard is paying us for our hospitality? Every man has his price. How deep do your pockets go, Captain Bordon?"

My shoulders relaxed, but only a fraction. The Falcos didn't appear to be lacking in money or food. They were difficult for me to place on any spectrum, regardless, and could have built their home from the ground up by renting out room and board to wealthy families who became lost and stranded in their woods. "If you are looking to earn a wage, Master Falco, try the King's Army. Or some trade. Carpentry, perhaps? It would be significantly more honorable than picking travelers' pockets." At the very least, I had fulfilled the General's request. I could have headed back indoors; but found that my feet were not satisfied with this resolve and could not be moved. "Is money the reason why you have threatened my wife and child?"

"Threaten?" Barnabas crossed his arms and for the first time in the short while that I had known him, he seemed defensive. This didn't last. "I only seek to raise awareness. He's a big boy and your wife's tits… well, I'm sure you've seen them. At least, I hope you have. We have a microscope around here somewhere…"

My fist swung outward, right into the lanky boy's gut. He hunched over my arm in pain and I flung him into the snowbank with such effortlessness, he could have been made of paper. "You are despicable." As I kicked a spattering of snow across his face, I saw that he still managed to grin at me.

"I am already a tradesman, Captain," Barnabas stood and dusted himself off, "how about taking a look in my shed? If not you, your wife might," his voice shifted to mock an English accent that was too ornately posh to be realistic, "fancy a gander?!" I advanced on him and this time, I was ready to draw blood or worse. "She has played one of my instruments before. I have several on display at Lars'. Such an honor! To have one's violin played by _the Sylph_ ," he saw that he had captured my interest. Meanwhile, I stayed my fist. For now. "Oh, yes. I've seen her before. Prostituting her talents at that damned vendor's. She plays, too, but only indoors. I have an intimate knowledge of the soulless music industry, the dank and dismal sewers that orchestrations must pass through before magically popping up in concert halls and at spoiled little schoolgirls' harpsichord stands. The public loves their _Sylph_ but for how long?" As he examined his nailbeds, I took a closer look at his hands. They were splintered, rough and coated with sawdust, but they also possessed the undeniable characteristics of an avid violinist's strong fingers. "She is my fiercest competition and," there it was again, that hateful hunger that Sylvia ignited in him, "the very thought of her eventual fall from grace is my deepest and darkest obsession. A husband and a child, I could not foresee. It was foolish of me to underestimate the inherent weakness of women. They'll turn to mush over the first spineless man they can find without fail! Bravo, Captain! You have helped me more than you will ever know."

"That fall from grace that you speak of will never happen," I told him, lowly, "you do not know my wife and do not know me. Stay away from us."

Fans were to be expected with Sylvia. Passionate competitors, too. But the alias that she used kept them separate from us, or so I thought. I considered what to say, what to do to make Sylvia aware of this potential threat on her career- and life. There was something in him, something dark and disturbed that made me feel as though he would come to our home while I was away. Telling either the General or my wife about this was easier said than done. So instead, I devised a proposal that Sylvia remain at the estate with Celeste and help her sister through her pregnancy. At the very least, that would conceal my paranoia and grant Barnabas and his father the time to discuss his enlistment which the General was still advocating for when I headed back for a much-needed reunion with my wife and child.

Upon my return, Sylvia was wide awake with Sebastian rolled up in her lap. She had her back against the headboard and was holding one of her lacy handkerchiefs over her breast. There were several drops of blood on the whiteness. "He doesn't even have teeth yet and is already a biter!" I sat beside her and, with her approval, removed the covering. Although it was chapped and rough to the touch, her small areola was the same shade of peony pink that I had locked away like a treasure in my memory. It ringed a reddened, bloody nipple and I could almost feel her pain merely from looking upon this deviation from its usual, paler coloring. "It could just be the cold drying my skin out. Or perhaps I'm overfeeding him. I can't wait to speak to another woman about motherhood, there are probably countless things that I am doing wrong!"

"Don't sell yourself short," I dabbed softly at the minor albeit painful looking injury, "you are doing beautifully. Besides, are there not perks to being stuck with your husband?" Her eyebrow rose. "A kiss to make it all better? Surely, I am the preferred candidate for such a procedure." Upon the first appearance of her tender smile, I touched my lips to her wounded breast and there, she allowed me to remain.

"Sweetheart," she whispered, cradling my head. I shut my eyes and continued to block the trickling of blood with my lips. Every minute or so, my kiss would either deepen or loosen, depending upon how her body responded. This was the nearest to sex that we had ventured in months and yet, it brought about a sense of arousal that was separate from fiery passion. It was consolation, healing, reliance upon one another's body and soul. "You are the dearest man in all the world."

I helped her dress, holding a fresh handkerchief to each raw bosom as she adjusted her corset. Sebastian was alarmingly well-behaved when we left him alone at the center of the bed. I wagered that he sensed his mother's light hostility and felt badly or at least confused about what had happened. This was the most dismissive she had ever been towards our son and I knew that exhaustion would get to her, eventually. Once she was dressed and had picked away, more or less, at the stack of room-temperature food, she returned wholeheartedly to her role as mother. She took the collection of mismatched blankets that Pastor Benson had given us before departing and started to prepare Sebastian for the cold.

I caught her watching me as I put on a pair of fresh breaches and felt so shy that I nearly blushed. Old urges were resurfacing and if I'm being completely honest, I had an ongoing fantasy about turning my home into a love nest for us both. With the baby and my recent lean towards staying temporarily in the estate, I knew that our desires had to remain postponed. Sylvia understood this, too, because the remainder of our morning in the warmth of the Falco's guestroom was spent addressing her wishes to reside a while longer with her sisters while I was in New York. I was glad that we both felt that way, relieved, even. But there was a small part of me that felt like less of a husband to her by not keeping her under my own roof while I was away.

Our departure from the farmhouse went smoothly. If Barnabas hadn't made a point to stay out of sight and out of mind, that might not have been the case. General Ballard asked only once about how our conversation went and didn't seem to press for information past my nonchalant response of, "Very well, thank you." The only other time his name came up was when the General spoke of how successfully Barnabas had reconstructed the broken wagon and, indeed, it did carry us into New Jersey without any complications. My theories of sabotage were laid to rest, thankfully.

Sylvia climbed to the front when we were within an hour of the estate and I gave her my seat. She wanted to converse with her father about her plans to remain with Celeste and, above all, give curious little Sebastian a surveillance of the colony that would become his home. Yet another friendly hour passed us by with ease. Sylvia moved to the back to sit with me, or rather, rest her head on my chest as I reclined. Once I had ensured that she and the General were on the same page, I relaxed and nodded off and felt little shame for doing so. General Ballard and I had spent enough time together on the road that day and he did not bemoan his solitude once Sylvia and I were bundled up together in our own respective place.

"You will love the estate, Sweetheart," she ensured me. "We have featherbeds that could put the one that we slept on last night to shame, fireplaces in every room and large, comfortable bathtubs that you can request hot water for at any time of the day. And- ah! The tea selection!" The General responded with a loud 'Huzzah!" from the outside.

"And the… the… Not Porridge!" I teased her.

"Not Porridge!" Sylvia laughed, "You and I shall surely be on the Not Porridge Diet for the remainder of our long and happy lives!"

This gained yet another "Huzzah!" from General Ballard. He seemed in good spirits, but after we had climbed the height of the tall hill outside of his property, he became the man with whom I had walked the streets of New York the night that Sebastian was born. He didn't bother to tell us that we had arrived. Instead, he pounded on the front door and gave poor Nora hell when she didn't answer fast enough. His concern was infectious. Sylvia passed on formally introducing our son to the maid who had taken care of her from birth and asked about Celeste's condition, instead. General Ballard headed straight for the staircase.

"Any day now," Nora coaxed, leading us into a sitting room that I had never before visited. It was a lovely space with a glorious fireplace and a view of the frozen lake that would become residence to Sylvia's swans come Spring. "What a blessing that the baby will have a cousin! This house has been without children for far too long." She was speaking to us, but as with Pastor Benson, her eyes were on Sebastian the entire time.

"Has she had any complications? Papa surely told you about my own before he left for New York."

She shook her head, "Only complication Miss Celeste has faced is that dreadful Tarleton. You are fortunate to have found such a faithful companion in Master Bordon."

Sylvia appeared to be rather unsteady. She was searching for the right moment to tell her everything that had happen while she was away. Yet, given our timing and her sister's fragile condition, apprehension stifled her excitement. "This our son, he is rather shy. But there never has been and never will be a baby who is immune to your lovely lullabies and cuddles, Nora," she began, using her curiosity about our son as fuel.

Nora stood on her toes and managed to catch a full view of Sebastian before he cowered against my chest. "He's the spitting image of our old parcel boy," she gave me a tiny wink. "Not named 'Boris', too, I should hope?"

I chuckled, "Heavens, no! I saw to it that he wouldn't have to be so unfortunate. This little man is called Sebastian."

"Sebastian Ballard," Nora mused, still relying on her own good humor to alleviate the awkwardness. "Has a rather musical quality to it, does it not? I assume you will start him early on the harpsichord? His Mama started playing before she could walk!"

Sylvia and I looked to one another. I didn't have to articulate anything for her to glimpse my discomfort. "Sebastian Lawrence Nichols Bordon," she interjected, carefully. "The 'Lawrence Nichols', of course, being after his maternal grandfather. Papa wouldn't have had it any other way. 'Bordon' rather than 'Ballard' because that is what the three of us are now. We are the Bordons."

Nora chomped down on her fingernail, reading us closely with her lively black eyes. "Anyone for tea?" There it was, the first external 'congratulations' on our marriage and the birth of our son. Sylvia and I politely declined her offer. "I'll put a kettle on, anyway. I could use some tea. So could General Ballard, of that I am certain! I will be back in a flash!"

"Tea…" Sylvia fell into the luxurious embrace of a deep leather couch by the fire. "A solution to everything!"

I followed suit, smiling at Sebastian's curious gaze into the blazing embers. "Yes. It even takes the sting out of seeing their princess marry the stable boy! Of course, it is better than the princess marrying the dastardly Prince Humperdinck and later learning that he impregnated her sister!"

"Beg pardon?"

"I suppose you haven't heard that story before?" The amused confusion had yet to vanish from her eyes. "Of course, I did make some minor deviations to the original plot."

She placed her head on my shoulder and reached for my free hand, "I have not! You will have to tell it to me sometime!"

"As you wish."

It wasn't long until the General returned, and Sylvia went upstairs to visit with Celeste. He sat silently with his teacup, staring into the fire and I felt nearly as ill at ease as I did when he first invited me for tea. I combed my mind over, searching for an encouraging thought to offer him. None came. After pretending that I was not in the room for a good fifteen minutes, his eyes fell on me and I knew at once that conversation would be inevitable.

"I have been thinking a great deal about you, Boris," he ringed his chubby finger around the brim of the cup, "and I've reached the conclusion that God has been on our side these past few months. Why, if Sylvia had forgotten about you like I asked her to do and she married… that dreadful man, instead, I cannot imagine what hell would be descending upon my household at this time. I suppose what I am trying to say is that although your ideas of what is best for my daughter might contradict my own, I do not believe that you are _entirely_ clueless."

I smiled, faintly at first. But when the General smiled back at me in full force, something changed between us. "That means a lot coming from you, General Ballard. Truly, it does."

"When you are sitting with me as my son-in-law, you may address me as Lawrence," he took a tiny sip of tea, but even that could not fully erase his alarmingly friendly grin, "you needn't be so tense, you know? Loosen up. You are family now."


	23. Opinions and Secrets

There was no consoling Sylvia on the day that I returned to New York, or so it seemed. I remained with her for as long as I could and did not depart until mid-day which was, incidentally, when Celeste's contractions were at their very worst. We met briefly in the hallway and she checked her dress for any blood, fearing that it would seep into my uniform and cause trouble between myself and my commanders later that day. I did not care. The distance in her eyes, the paling of her face and the frenzy of concern that she was in for her sister and for myself, told me what I must do. I took her in my arms and held her close.

"Kill that bloody bastard Tarleton if you see him again," she requested over the pained screams of poor Celeste. "And come home to me. The very instant that you are relieved, come home to me without delay. I can't stand the thought of being without you for a day. Let alone a whole month!"

"You are never without me," we were both so rushed, pulled in opposite directions by our responsibilities. I hardly had time to kiss her farewell before General Ballard paced past us.

"You should have left hours ago, Boy," he said with a wobbly voice. Nervousness for Celeste and his new grandchild, no doubt. "You are a captain now and must set a good example for the lads in your company."

"I must go," I told my Sylvia, framing her face with my hands. The gift of her silky skin beneath my thumbs as I caressed her beautifully sculpted cheeks was not mine this time. I had already slipped my hands into their gloves, ready to ride. "Nora has Sebastian?"

"Yes. They are climatizing to one another well. But he has already started missing you. We both have."

This was to be our way of life and while neither of us were content with it, it could have been so much worse. I did want to go to Boston, I wanted to help the company that I was originally assigned to but hope for them was bleak and General Ballard saw to it that his son-in-law would not be far off. I would live in the barracks again, in nicer quarters. Aiding in local conflicts and assisting with strategy when the time came, it sounded workable and a far cry from the woes of training. But I was frightened and felt once more that I was ill-suited for the responsibilities that I had been given.

"I must go," I whispered again to my wife and I am certain that fear surfaced in my eyes, if only for a moment. "You are so strong, Sylvia." The wound beneath her bandaged bow hand was healing and fading, but the image of my elegant, statuesque sylph fighting off wolves with her bare hands lingered in my mind. She was strong, and she was safe, I could leave her there for a month without any worries. "You inspire me to be strong, too. We will make it through this month and all of the months to come," her eyes were comforting, comforting but sad. "I am bringing my violin along, just like you asked."

This garnered a smile that was a bright and as lovely as she was. "Then I will send you songs to play." She balanced her forehead on my own. "And every note will lift you up and carry you back home to me."

I kissed her brow, her cheeks, her soft lips, making my devout love known to her with each contact and then I left her, dragging my reluctant and aching heart behind me as I walked.

The ride was uneventful. The path was more defined from wagons and feet that had also braved the snow. Passing the strange farmhouse that we had visited, where Silas and Barnabas had taken us in disheartened me so much that I nearly took a detour through the wolf-infested woods. Thank heavens I knew better. Traveling alone made me anxious, my palms were sweating inside of my gloves and I had one hand ready at my pistol all the way into New York. Sylvia would have laughed if she had seen me. Of course, I wouldn't have been so fearful if Sylvia was by my side.

I wondered for a while if I was the only military man to ever feel that way. Protecting my wife and son was my highest priority and yet, I relied on her for protection, too. When she was with me, I knew that her strength and intellect would keep us both from harm. She was more than an additional set of eyes and a quick hand that could fire a gun with as much accuracy as any man. She was more than a mere companion to me and more than what a wife, traditionally speaking, should be. She had fused herself to every cell in my body. By leaving her in New Jersey, I was splitting everything that I was made of in two. I was half as quick, half as smart and half as strong as I was before. I didn't know how I would survive without her.

New York was just as bleak as I had left it. I was annoyed to find that the quiet quarters I had been promised were already filled by not one but three men whose rankings were just below my own. "Fight for it," was what I had been told by a thoroughly drunk and thoroughly detached general when I went to him with my complaint. Initiating a row over a warm bed might have been appealing, but I was still spiritually content after the series of perfect nights that I had spent dreaming with Sylvia and Sebastian in my arms atop a spectacular featherbed. One night or two on a cot would not hurt me.

Finding sleep proved impossible. I started a letter home and was barked at to blow out my candle. Words, relentless words that would have dissolved on my tongue otherwise, kept me from settling in. I had to write to her. Doing so on a table in the nearby tavern was my best option. A captain racing to the tavern and getting piss drunk on his first night in town set an undesirable image. So, I ordered a hot cup of tea and asked for a table in the back, where no one would see or bother me. There were some snickers when my beverage of choice was delivered, but I didn't mind. I tweaked the letter that I had composed and, like an idiot, read it aloud to myself:

 _To my beloved Sylvia,_

 _We have only been apart one day, and I can already feel my strength wearing thin. I cannot see how I lived in your absence for so many years. Even now, I have my doubts that the sun will rise tomorrow morning without you by my side-_

"That's absolute shite!" An intruding figure slipped into the chair across from me. "Weakness may be the truest feeling that you have ever known, but the second you reveal that weakness to a woman, you are as good as dead."

I looked up from the page, frowning. That expression did not stick around for long. I knew his face, slender, handsome, nearly as handsome as Tarleton's chiseled facade, but I could not imagine it smeared with blood or crying out with rage in the midst of battle. This man, this perfect gentleman whose dark blue eyes came alive with complex pain every time he spoke of music, poetry or love had remained as a pleasant memory in my mind since the last time that we spoke.

"Major Andre," I lifted my teacup and he mirrored my gesture with his mug of ale. "What a pleasant surprise!"

"I assume you can walk a straight line now?" He would have smiled but seemed preoccupied by the nuances in my uniform, "Or march, rather? How is the leg?"

"Gone," was my awkward reply. His eyes widened, and he stole a quick glance beneath the table. "I mean, the pain is gone, Major. Not the leg, itself. I hardly realize that the injury is there anymore." My face was burning. Major Andre, like Sylvia and General Ballard, had a special talent for making the bits and pieces of my personality that I was the least proud of surface.

"You were at Bunker Hill," he looked me over, "and were one of the few to leave by sea because of your injuries. I was pleased- honored, even, when I learned that you and I would be working together here. Perhaps you can tell me about the battle, someday. Only when you are ready to do so, of course."

My heart and mind were still unraveled and raw from leaving home. If given the option, I would return to Sylvia without a moment's hesitation. But there was something about Major John Andre, a friendliness, a magnetism that soothed me and made me stay with him in the tavern minute to minute, hour to hour, and into the night. I admired his composure, the way he spoke, the way his mind strung thoughts together and how he delivered them with musicality and wit. When we first met, he helped to rehabilitate my leg and gifted me with a channel back to music- back to Sylvia. I still believe to this day that I associated them with one another and that is why I grew so instantaneously fond of him.

We left the tavern at around three. John claimed that he was not drunk, but his walk and mannerisms proved otherwise. He insisted that I not return to the barracks and offered a better option with lower rent and better company. I could not refuse. He was giving towards me, always and he never asked for anything in return. Only for my friendship. I was comfortable with him, more trusting than I was of any man in New York. He would be the one to make my time away from home bearable. I napped lightly in his spare room and awoke to the melodious sound of one of Sylvia's well-known concertos.

"The Sylph! Excellent choice!" I shouted through those paper-thin walls as I polished my buttons and boots.

"What can I say?" John called back in return. "I am a purist! Drawn only to the masterpieces of the very best composers. The Sylph spoils me! Everything that she produces is a masterpiece!" I grinned. I'd nearly forgotten about his theory that the mysterious "Sylph" was a woman. "She has come to a bit of a lull recently, which is unlike her. I ask at the vendor everyday and there are no new pieces. I hope all is well."

I made for the hallway, dressed and ready for whatever the day held. "Truly, John," I said once I caught sight of him at his own music stand, "you speak of this phantom composer as though you know her personally!"

He placed the instrument back in its case and closed the score with the same love, the same carefulness that Sylvia would give to this ritual. "Somedays I feel as though I do, my friend."

I was quiet over tea and for the remainder of the morning. It wouldn't have hurt, it might have even served me well to disclose the identity of John's favorite composer, but I held my tongue. We spent the day, not on patrol, but in the offices. The work was clerical, strategic and seemed a far cry from the rigorous world that I had previously understood the army to be.

The conflict was no less great, however, and when I learned what he and I would be dealing with, my back stiffened in my chair and the warmth from the nearby fireplace combined with my quickening heartrate. I broke into a cold sweat. The page in my hand bore the names of two traitors, active spies who were as elusive as smoke. The first, Thorne, I had heard of only in passing. The second was a new addition, scribbled in so recently that the ink was still drying. I was right to suspect Barnabas, after all.

 **A/N: Kind of a tiny chapter. You know it's midterm week when…! I'll be back either this weekend or early next week with something a bit more substantial. X**


	24. When Loyalty and Instincts Collide

Like disclosing the Sylph's true identity, the thought of coming forward about the farmhouse put a stopper on my tongue. Everything inside of me was screaming to remain silent and so I did. I trusted John; I hardly knew him and yet, he assumed the form of every honest friend that I had been deprived of in my youth. That did not stop my fearfulness of what might happen if I brought my knowledge of Barnabas to light in the public sphere. I decided to confide in him after we left the offices. At the end of the day, perhaps, when no one else was around. This decision would bring about yet another lesson, essential to my transformation from a timid, mousy man to a fearsome, respectable soldier- compliance.

I was baffled by my new life in New York. The hours were sporadic, the physical demands were a far cry from my days of training and I was still unsure as to whether or not the company had improved. General Ballard was partly to blame for the changes in my career, the extended report of my injuries and John's influence played a defining role as well. Clerical work over field work, it seemed, was where my responsibilities would lie. I was entering a brief spell of complacency before the real work began. I would soon learn, however, that there were no small mistakes.

Gone were the days of pranking and petty conversations. The men who I worked with now were direct, strategic and showed little emotion. Save for John. He took me under his proverbial "wing" and in one elongated workday, showed me everything from arranging patrols and cracking codes in letters. Spies were everywhere, functioning in varying levels of danger, but every threat of compromise to the system was to be dealt with swiftness and upmost severity. I was putting away the reports for the day when John appeared behind me, unannounced.

"Has your mind clouded over yet?" He asked, placing his hand on my shoulder. I startled, much to my embarrassment.

"You don't know the half of it," I stretched, groaned and gave him the most jovial expression that my face could presently conjure. I had seen codes at work before, they reminded me of the damage that Sylvia would inflict upon the dresses and hats before sending them back to Lars. The tactics used by the enemy's spies, however, were ruthless and grotesque. Especially when they were trying to send a proverbial "message" to the British. I assumed Barnabas was destined to be one of those men and it rested on me to nip his career in the bud.

"A pint of ale will do us both some good," said John, it was more prescription than invitation.

Naturally, I obliged. I was quiet until about my second pint. Even after my inhibitions were eclipsed by the ale, I remained just as awkward as ever. We spoke of work; but shied away from what we had seen that day and stuck to what one might label as "gossip". John thought otherwise, he had a working mental landscape of everything that was happening in New York and was intrigued when he discovered where I fit in all of it. This began when Banastre Tartleton was mentioned in passing.

"Well, Major," I relaxed in my chair, feeling bolder than usual, "if you have any power over the situation, I would like to request that the vile, narcissistic brute and I never cross paths with one another! I have an order from my wife to lop his head off, so it would be best for all parties-"

"-your wife!" Amusement danced behind his blue eyes. "You mean that poor girl who you write those dreadful love letters to actually married you? No offence, Boris, but you seem the sort to admire from afar and never take well… initiative, if you catch my drift."

"I have a wife, yes, and a son back home in New Jersey." Anger spiked my blood. Not towards John, but towards myself. Was this what became of men when they left their family behind? If my priorities could shift so drastically over a matter of days, what did that say about me as a husband and a father? "That is the reason why General Ballard gave me this commission in the first place. He is my father in law."

"No!" He slunk back and took another sip, grinning like a child at a puppet show. "Were you the gentleman who played second fiddle to old Banastre in that engagement fiasco?"

"Well, it isn't exactly second fiddle when you consider that she ran away from _him_ to be with _me_."

"Why does she want you to behead the poor fellow?"

Again, self-loathing. Not only had I placed my beloved family on a shelf in the back of my mind, I had forgotten about Celeste. "How long have you known Banastre?"

"Since boyhood. Trust me, he takes some getting used to, but he is a gentleman-"

"- Sylvia has three sisters. Banastre has made advances on each of them, sometimes simultaneously!" I narrowed my eyes and took another gulp of ale. "He is anything but a gentleman."

"Aha," he ringed the edge of the mug with the corner of his thumb. "You went with Sylvia, did you?"

"Please. You make the act of taking a wife sound as though it is nothing short of searching for an ideal tomato at market!"

There was no saying whether or not my comment had affected his outlook on women and marriage. His charming smile remained and if there was any shift of emotions behind his eyes that, too was perfectly concealed by their usual sparkle. "Sylvia is the defiant one, correct?" He noted my shrug. "The one who will openly bicker with her father about removing her gloves at the dinner table? A peculiar thing to argue about, don't you think? Then, even after winning said argument, she complains about how 'stale' and 'bleak' her father's selection of dining music is."

If my heart had a face, I know it would be smiling. "Yes, that is my Sylvia."

"I'm not sure if this will comfort or discourage you, Captain Bordon, but large, wealthy families like the Ballards are exactly who we must be mindful of at this time. They need our protection. I have known Lawrence Ballard for several years now. He throws more parties and banquets than any well to do gentleman in the Northern colonies. Having that many personnel in a single, unarmed place at one time… well, we are beginning to realize just how many pockets of rogues there are in these parts."

My brow furrowed, "I was of the opinion that the estate was the safest place for my family. Is it?" No response. I wanted to ask if my home, my small, seemingly insignificant little dot of land in the country would be a better option for them. The same feeling that had entered my mind earlier, warning me to remain silent until we were perfectly alone caused me to retreat into my nearly empty drink. There I stayed until we left the tavern near midnight. A letter was waiting for me by the door. A letter bearing Sylvia's elegant penmanship along with her address. Paranoia commandeered my otherwise rational mind yet again. John saw the way that I was looking at the parchment and the seal, but he offered me no counsel, went to his room, shut the door halfway and practiced a concerto by his idol as I read.

 _Sweetheart,_

 _Has it truly been two days since you left for New York? If so, if such a small frame of time can feel like centuries relentlessly building atop one another, then any hope of me lasting an entire month without you is as good as lost! Reaching for you in the night and finding only an empty space is unbearable and what is worse, I know that you are reaching for me, too. Knowing that I cannot be there for you during your trials in New York is half the pain, the other half is hunger for your kindness, your simplicity, your warmth- your love._

 _Sweet Sebastian continues to be picture of perfection. I swear, Boris, he becomes more and more like his father with every passing second. He is now the cousin to a darling little girl called Viola, who Celeste gave birth to several hours after we parted. Mother and child are both faring beautifully, and I am certain that you will be happy to hear that Viola is more Ballard in her appearance and temperament than she is a Tarleton!_

 _I have enclosed a new page of melody. In truth, I am afraid that you will be baffled by it. You see, Sweetheart, what started as a tender passage broke into fearfulness and timidity at around the third measure. It must be the separation going to my head. I feel so safe when I am in your arms and then when you leave- fears, some old and some new, some that I understand and some that I cannot yet decipher enter into a space that is deeper than both heart and mind. Only my music can take me there._

 _You must forgive me. It is not my intention to worry or startle you. I only seek to be honest with you, to give you the inner workings of all that I am. All is well here at the estate. But your absence is felt. It hurts, it stifles, it strips me bare and subjects me to invisible fears that only I can see. I know that when we meet again, those worries will vanish, and all will be well once more._

 _Love conquers all,_

 _Sylvia Bordon_

I glanced at the music and hummed it to myself, hitting an incorrect note here and there. I could see the part that Sylvia had forewarned. It was staccato, rough. I had admired the violin long before my beautiful sylph entered into my life. It was, in my mind, the nearest instrument to the human voice; an instrument that could sing, trill and even scream. Those screams for me seemed to travel through the night, from New Jersey to New York and they filled my heart with terror. What I was feeling, she was feeling, too. This foreshadowing of an inevitable danger. I hung onto the parchment, embracing and caressing it as though it were Sylvia, herself and went to tear John from his complacency.

"Barnabas Falco," I entered without knocking. "I know where his farmhouse is. That is the first patrol that I would like to arrange, Major and, if it is not too much trouble, I would like to lead."

His violin glimmered, reflecting both candlelight and moonlight as he placed the instrument on his bed. "Like hell you do," he bore his teeth, "why didn't you mention this before?"

My body warmed with embarrassment, melting my confidence away as though it were thin ice. "His file is new, Sir. Incomplete. He cannot be that great of a threat."

"You know him personally?"

"I met him once," I continued, touching the edges of Sylvia's newest composition.

"What do you have in your hands, Captain?" For the first time and hopefully the last, I saw a hint of distrust in his eyes.

"This is nothing," I shrugged and handed it to him for examination. "My wife encloses music for me with each letter. It is a romantic touch and is in no way relevant to-" my eyes glazed over as I remembered what Barnabas had told me. "They work by code. He is a composer, too. Is it possible for spies to encrypt messages in music, Sir?" My minor epiphany seemed to vanish on the breeze. Indifferently, he passed the parchment back to me, reached for a black portfolio on his desk and handed it to me. "What's this?"

"This is a hymnal by Salvador Thorne," he told me as I flipped through the pages. "They appear to be ordinary devotionals at first. The text and liturgy do not change. That is why they appear so innocent. What you do, however, is take the letter of every third note and combine them with the third-nearest letter in the text. Sometimes, it makes sense. Sometimes, you have to borrow the next consonant or vowel over. Thorne was a military man, a loyalist, much like yourself. He communicated strategies, names, locations to Washington for many years before vanishing without a trace. Now, he operates a network of spies and assassins. It does surprise me that his newest recruit and personal lapdog is also a composer," he shrugged, "what surprises me is how you managed to find yourself caught in the middle of this mess and how hesitant you were to confide in me."


	25. Caught in the Crosshairs

I did not sleep for days thereafter and neither did John. We split the roll top desk in two, one half for compositions and the other for partially and successfully cracked codes. By day, our work continued in the offices and I was frequently sent on errands to the archives at the local music hall. It was not until two days in that I realized what he was trying to accomplish. John was covering for me. The lead that I had given him was passed off as nothing more than a hunch in his report. My association with Barnabas was swept under the rug. Irrelevant. And I was safe. At least, I appeared to be. In the place of the career-threatening accusations, we pieced together clues that tied the young composer to Thorne. John's report was thoughtful and precise. Should the review go accordingly, the farmhouse would be in our crosshairs and I would be able to sleep soundly knowing that the silent threat on my family's wellbeing was demolished at last.

"Why gloves?" he taunted as we had tea over the newly organized stacks of paper in his flat, "Does Sylvia wear them to bed, too?! Might that interfere with her marital duties to her husband?"

I coughed, aghast. His eyes danced and glittered as he delighted in my pain. There was something else in them, too. It was cautionary and intelligent. He was looking at me as though there was a code inside of my brain that could be teased out, too. "I beg your pardon, Major?" Once recovered, I returned to my earl grey, but stole occasional glances at my companion between sips. "Poor circulation. She becomes cold rather easily."

"She becomes cold rather easily?" John mocked. Although, he appeared to be discouraged when I did not lighten up. I should have known that other men would gain interest in Sylvia, just as Barnabas had. But John's inquiries about my wife were neither lecherous nor threatening. Hidden identities would not hide for long around Major Andre, of this I was certain and his admiration for the _Sylph_ forewarned me that it was just a matter of time before he learned who my wife truly was. "You cannot warm those dainty little hands of those, yourself?"

"You know women," I gave him a reaffirming glance. Perhaps by simplifying her for him, I would fill up those empty spaces before he had a chance to do so with his own speculations. "They are all so tragically enslaved by fashion! Sylvia is no different." Foiled again. He saw right through me.

Letters and compositions arrived from her without fail. She wrote the same way that she spoke, you see, and it was a comfort to receive detailed paragraphs of how our son was faring without me. He still clung so devotedly to his mother by day but could sleep through most of the night in a bedside crib. Celeste had introduced little Viola to him. According to Sylvia, the pair only fussed when their mothers pulled them apart at the end of their first visit. As the weeks progressed, the closeness between both infants increased. I looked forward to conversing with General Ballard over a freshly baked batch of crumpets. I looked forward to holding Sylvia in my arms through the night and awakening just early enough to watch her dream for a while. I looked forward to it all, the spectacular estate and those who resided therein- the family that I had gained, the people who I was growing to know as my loved ones. There was a special and secret anticipation that I kept to myself, however—to watch as my son made his first friend.

John and I remained idle, but the cruel nature of fate would see to it that we would be called into action on the eve of my departure. Instead of preparing for my journey to New Jersey, I directed a small patrol and together, we rode to the farm that Silas and Barnabas called home. The woods were just as I remembered them, ominous and deep. I saw no wolves but heard a few and saw where their large pawprints had destroyed the virgin snow. There was no fire in the hearth, no spiral of smoke from their chimney and I felt uneasy, terribly uneasy as I selected two men to scout the perimeter. The front door was wide open and swinging on its hinges, snow had blown inside. John and I were the first to enter and search the rooms, but all had been vacated and swept clean. The family, I assumed, had taken what they needed to survive. Pickpockets and thieves had done the rest. It was not a bugle call or a whistle that we heard next, but a bloodcurdling scream from one of scouts.

"Continue covering ground upstairs," John said to me as he made for the door. I sent three officers to the staircase that had been spattered with frost and headed towards him, instead. "That is an order, Captain!"

"The house is empty! There is something out there in the woods and you want me to stay in here? Must you always cover for me?"

"Yes," was his honest, simple answer. He placed his hand on my shoulder when he knew that we were alone. "You have a family. Now, watch through the side window for my signal and don't leave a single room unaccounted for."

I remained in that cold, empty house for nearly an hour. Never before had I known silence to be so loud. There should have been chatter and the crunch of footsteps in the snow; something, anything to interrupt the echoing of that terrible scream. The others glared at me from across the room and though they did not speak, I could see just how incompetent they believed me to be. Their eyes told me so. I watched the outside instead and when John gave his signal, I led the way and warned my men to proceed with caution. He gestured for me, the two scouts remained behind several paces, white as ghosts.

"They knew that we were coming," his voice was low and hushed, "they knew the names of the men that were to be placed in this company."

"How?" I shot back. "How could they possibly have gained that information? Did you speak to them? Silas and Barnabas? Were they in the woods?"

"This goes beyond Silas and Barnabas, my friend. No, they were not in the woods. I need you to come with me. Bring your musket and ammunition. Tell the men to go inside, but not to build a fire. We cannot give away our location, Captain." With a deteriorating psyche, John turned to give his instructions to the two shaken men while I repeated his orders to everyone else. "Aim for their heads and fire quickly." That was John's first and only command as we passed over the sloping earth, laden with icy branches.

My pulse quickened, the coppery taste of panic descended on my tongue and it was impossible for me to swallow, to think. There were eight of them, at least, an even split between women and children, all hanging dead and cold from the trees. A black wolf prowled the ground beneath them while a second stood on its hind legs, biting into the calf muscle of a deceased girl. She was the one who my eyes traveled to first, not because of the brutality of her assailant, but her attire and the beauty of her composure. She was not necessarily wealthy but had been dressed, it seemed, to resemble the doll that remained clutched in her hand. The golden ringlets beneath her bonnet were ruffled as the hungry wolf swayed and spun her tiny body.

"I recognize most of them," John whispered. "Preserve your strength. Killing the wolves will be nothing compared to the task that we have before us. We are about to break the heart of every other man in our patrol."

I took my aim, but not without glancing once more at that beautiful child, suspended on a rope. She was the very image of a smaller, younger Sylvia Ballard. With that thought it mind, I hit my mark with precision. We cut down the bodies, eleven total and proceeded with the first in a long series of sorrowful events brought about by Thorne. I was the one who led them there, too ashamed and cowardly to explain what they were about to see. Before we passed that threshold into the woods, a younger officer handed me an item that he had found in an upstairs corridor. It was a plain book, one that I merely tucked under my arm in the wake of what was unfolding before me. I did not look at it until later that night, when John and I were waiting quietly to speak to our commander. Music and sketches, that was what it held. I recognized the woman in those crude portraits and as John glanced over, I could tell that he recognized her, too.

"My wife is danger," I muttered beneath my breath, "Forgive me. I cannot explain it. But I can feel it."

"Go," his hand found my shoulder yet again.

It was a simple enough plan, really. I would travel by night and arrive at the estate before noon the next day. Every nerve, every cell in my body was ablaze. The panic from earlier had yet to wear off. For all I knew, it would continue to consume me until there was nothing left of me but a stifled gasp, a scream. I could feel my face burning against the cold night air and tears, heaven forbid, tears began to sting the flesh around my eyes. I needed her. I needed to hold my wife and child in my arms and never let them go. The pacing of my stride quickened as I rounded each corner, my key was ready for the lock several blocks before I reached the flat. I only expected to see that black door and its golden letterbox, the wrought iron fence and its winterized hedges below. A light dusting of snow fell from the heavens and swept across the cobbled streets. There she was, a perfect picture standing on the steps. The crimson satin of her gown was barely creased from travel. In one hand, hung the case that her violin lived inside. In the other, our baby boy was sound asleep beneath the lace at her alabaster throat.

"Sweetheart," said she, moving from the sidewalk and into my open arms. I had to feel the warmth of her breath and the softness of her hair. I had to cradle her golden head in my palm and commit my lips to the pink velvet of her mouth, if only to fully convince myself that she was real. And she was. The snowflakes clung to her hairline and the lengthy curls of each beautiful eyelash. When the cold air moved across her nose and cheeks, stealing away their natural blush, I kissed them, too. Sebastian yawned and nestled closer, merely content to be held. "What is that in your hand?"

I showed her the key, "You must be freezing. I will get a fire going for you. And some tea."

Sylvia turned the violin case, just far enough for me to see a bit of flattened metal glimmering in the lamplight. "We are three buildings over," she confirmed with the most spectacular of smiles, "it is under furnished, but Papa will be taking care of that this weekend. Come with me, Sweetheart. Let us go and see our new home."

 **A/N: My apologies for that massive hiatus! The good news for any followers of this story is that I have moved it from the backburner and to the top of my priority list! Wooo! I still have countless ideas for this story and a new outline (my last one was lost when my flashdrive went through the washing machine, haha), so there are plenty of updates in the forecast. Thank you, as always, for reading. And putting up with me! Lol. X**


	26. The Christening

General Ballard had outdone himself, yet again. There was nothing "under furnished" about the flat; from what I saw in that initial glance, anyway. Once inside, I took Sylvia in my arms and tried in vain to elaborate on how overjoyed I was by this sweet surprise. My worries were suspended and so, there was no making them known to her just yet, but I feared for them now that they were in New York and did not know how keen my supervision would be when called into service. I cursed the path that I was on. Perhaps if I was anything but a soldier, I would still be ignorant to what I had seen earlier. It seemed cruel that those men, my comrades, were given such a devastating reunion with their families on that day and that mine should be so undeniably beautiful. Sylvia's violin was at her feet now. Her free hand touched the buttons of my coat and paused at the center of my chest. I knew that look, that subtle flirtation that she would often give my uniform. She was proud of me, of my loyalty and service to the King. No words were necessary for me to glimpse this and I was humbled by her pride.

"How was your journey?" I asked, taking her hand and removing a doeskin glove from its fragile structure. "It must have been exhausting for you both."

"Let us just say that Sebastian will sleep well tonight. Come! There is something that I wish to show you!" The usual skip in her walk returned as we navigated the halls. Many of the furnishings remained covered and the walls still smelled strongly of drying paint. No pictures had been hung, but there were several charming pastorals in thick, golden frames on the floors, waiting to be displayed properly. It was condensed—but grand, almost as grand as the Ballard Estate itself. What surprised me the most was that Sylvia and I did not linger in those ornate rooms for long. We climbed the stairs and she located the humblest of quarters, an upstairs studio with a small fireplace and a skylight that perfectly framed the moonlight and the falling snow. "I liked this room the best, I hope you do not mind it." There was a small bed that she must have moved there all by herself and a little bassinette for the baby to sleep in. I saw also a large windowsill where staff paper and a quill proudly sat, awaiting one of her midnight reveries.

"You will continue to surprise me well into old age," I grinned at her as she helped Sebastian settle in and snatched a pillow and quilt from the bed.

We built a fire and stretched out beside it without making a sound. I allowed her presence to consume me as she placed her head against my heart, caring not for the terrain of hard, brass buttons and other superfluous ornaments on my coat. She fell asleep in an instant and I understood the long hours that must have passed as she anticipated collapsing into my embrace. Her breaths were a lullaby, each one a deep whisper of trust, of the safety that she felt when we were together. It was soothing, but also a relentless chain of reminders that I was responsible for them now. I listened closely as Sebastian cooed and Sylvia whispered my name in her sleep. In no more than an hour, I managed to enter into a dreamless void without losing awareness of who I was with.

Deep in the night, when the city was silent, and the skylight had been coated with snow and blue moonlight, I felt her stirring from above me. No sensation in all of nature, no gentle breeze or airy snowflake could surpass the softness of her glance and the touch of her fingertips on my brow. Her arm was hooked so that it framed my face and I could see the faint outline of the scar that the wolves had left her with when she fought them off, guided only by her love for Sebastian and I. Her lips arched in greeting, the same way that a bow gives way when it meets the string. For a long while, our only connection was that warm, tender stare and partial smile. Her lips parted, as if to speak, but instead they descended and locked upon my own. A familiar yearning spiked my blood and she could tell, even before I knew, myself, that my body was calling out to her after those chaste months that I had granted her to mend after giving birth.

Our breaths intertwined and deepened, churning and blowing in the clouds carried our storm. They were pulsing with energy and heavy with rain. The fabrics that my coat and her gown were composed of twisted into an embrace all their own as they were cast aside. It seemed as though even our exteriors, the fronts that we put up for all the world to see, were also as deeply in love with one another as what lived beneath them. We did not bother with my shirt or her chemise, just as we did on the first night that we were together. The remained between us, white and clean, like bits of paper to compose this new duet upon—the one that had been living inside of us, longing for another grand debut. She knew exactly how to align and pace herself with me and when she bent her fingers against my chest, I understood it as a command to remain where I was with my back against the floor as her love rained upon me and her desire sent lightning flashing through my veins.

I admired the band of lace that moved like white foam on a stormy sea across her youthful cleavage. Every time her hips rolled inland, the chemise would catch itself between her weight and my thigh and the visibility of her breasts would increase, each one a playful moon hiding behind a raincloud only to appear again in cloud-breaks as the storm travels and spreads across the land. While watching this beautiful display, I was the first to surrender and in doing so, disrupted the rhythm that she had enforced. A sigh. This change of tempo and key began with a sigh that was not loud enough to awaken the sleeping babe across the room. Sylvia dropped to embrace me. It was a code that we knew very well, indeed. Our bodies had only ever climaxed while being held by one another. Eagerly, I reached for the flesh beneath her clothing. My hands glided indulgently across her naked back. It was effortless and smooth like a swan landing upon a crystalline lake. Masterfully as ever, she found a way to achieve harmonic unison. With her fingers around my shoulders and her cheek against my chest, she reveled in my release, in those ribbons of lightning that we had forged together. It was a mutual and lasting swoon that resounded in the empty hallways of our new home. We had christened the space as our very own through love, desire and sound.

The baby began to cry, and Sylvia sat down on the bed to feed him. Her face was still blushing, her breast was still heaving and all that I could do was the glow that our intercourse had given her. I would never tire of beholding her in these vulnerable and sweet moments. No one alive, not even Sylvia herself, was aware of that ring of light that surrounded her. That was a pleasure that only I could possess. The room had chilled when the fireplace grew dim. I took it upon myself to make it livable once more by building a new fire and then claiming a space beside Sylvia in the newly folded sheets of our abandoned bed. Reality beckoned. It was tempting to discuss the logistics of their relocation to New York. But I was still too thrilled to have them there, to sit against the headboard with Sylvia propped against me as she fed Sebastian, to hold them, to love them, to appreciate them in a way that I never could when they were back in New Jersey. I looked over her shoulder and saw the adoring, trusting gaze between mother and son. It was selfish, yes, but I decided to fall in love with the idea of having them there with me and stop questioning it, if only for a while.

"I love you," I murmured, watching Sebastian retire. The scar appeared for a second time in my periphery, bringing about a new string of contemplations. No more was the pampered girl whose eyes glazed over with tears from the pain of our first congress. She had grown so much over such a brief series of months. Not even I, a soldier, a man, had the courage to take on a wolf with my bare hands. She would not go silently should Thorne target her. She would not go at all. She would stand her ground and she would be victorious, regardless of the odds that were stacked against her. "Sylvia," my breath grazed the drying tendrils of golden hair against her reddened cheek, "why do you look upon me in such a way when I am in uniform?"

"Do you remember the first time that we made love?" Strange how even our thoughts so naturally aligned with one another. "You asked me if I was alright. You asked if you had held onto me too tightly. And I said…"

"I make you feel safe."

"Yes," she repositioned my arm so that I was holding her and our son in a single embrace. "you are my hero, my champion. There is nothing that anyone can do or say that will alter how I look at you."

"Even if I were to say that it is you, Sylvia? You are the hero and the champion of this family."

I expected a laugh, a shrug, a word or two of defiance. She grew so quiet that she might have been sleeping, but my vision captured one tear and then another as they journeyed across her face. "I am nobody. I hide, Sweetheart. Not because I want to, but because this world has shoved me in a box. That is all the space that I have to reside within, a box. Now that I am here, it would be so easy for me to make a name of myself in this city. All that I have is a pseudonym, but it does not belong to me. My music does not belong to me. It should. It is the very essence of my spirit. But… how does one change the world, Boris? I would have to be a man, you see! I would first have to be a man to lay claim to what is already my own! Is it wicked of me to wish for another life when all that I could ever hope for is here in this room?"

"What is it that you wish for?"

Now, I had her laughter. But it was strained. "To be you," she sunk further into my arms and meditated on her words. "There is no one who I trust more than you. Not only have you seen my soul, you _are_ my soul. My muse. The music that I create is as much your own as it is mine. I took your name when I married you. Perhaps you should take mine as well."

"Sylvia," I shook my head, "that would be impossible. Nobody would believe for a second that I could be capable of your genius. Besides, you have heard me play, I am rubbish!"

"I have enough unpublished work to fill up two cellars at the estate! Notoriety does not matter so much in life as it does when one's days are numbered. Promise me that you will claim my title should your life outlast my own. You needn't speak a word of it right now. I only ask that you carry it with you to the grave and then somehow, through letter or will, unveil that the compositions were yours. All of them, the hidden ones and the opus, especially. Then the world shall have its answer and the title of 'Sylph' shall remain in our family. I can think of no greater legacy for Sebastian."

I continued to hold her, so close that I am certain that she could feel my resistance to this plan. "And should I outlive you?"

"My music will only live so long as you do. Don't you already know this? Without you, my fingers would fall deaf to staff and note. I would no longer comprehend the power of sound and the intimacy of harmony. Please, Boris. Lay claim to what is already yours. It has always been your own."

Sebastian grew unsettled and Sylvia comforted him with a kiss. He must have thought that we were fighting or felt the sweat that was collecting on my palm. The sketches came to mind. There was at least one man outside of Sylvia's inner circle who knew that she was The Sylph. John, I wagered had passed from suspicion to knowledge when I showed him what Barnabas has drawn. To vanquish those who stood against my wife, that was my greatest cause. Furthermore, my trust in John was just strong enough to allow his knowing. "As you wish, my darling," I said at last. "As you wish."


	27. New Traditions (Bonus Chapter)

She was beside me when I awoke, right where God and every force in nature had intended her to be. In the night, I cherished each breath, movement and sound that she produced. Even when she left the world temporarily to dream, it seemed, my Sylvia remained an artful composer. The baby was sleeping soundly in his crib and would require his next feeding in another hour. Both of my wife's arms had slipped beneath the pillow as she slept, and her chemise had rolled upwards, cascading off either side of her back like the wings of an angel. I laughed to see such a beautiful, ethereal creature with her bottom fully exposed in the dim light. After gently fondling its round smoothness, I gave her backside a playful kiss.

"Did you just kiss my arse?!" Sylvia taunted, without even opening her eyes.

"Would you prefer that I smacked it instead?"

As she rolled over with the brightest and dearest of smiles, I saw her in full. My fingers passed inside of those warm walls to hide and play a while. With a sigh, her back rose from the sheets and I stripped her bare without missing a stroke. This was a ritual that we could both grow accustomed to. A gift that we could both possess now that we had a home to call our very own. She gave me several breathy lilts before my own arousal matched hers. I knew what she desired. I thirsted for it, too. It had been a while since our flesh defied all barriers and I was still shy to be seen unclothed in the light. But from her, I kept no secrets. For her, I would do anything. She touched me, and I could have sworn that I turned to gold, that I became just as perfect and beautiful as she was.

"Oh, Sweetheart," Sylvia whispered in hushed elation as she pulled me closer, deepening our bond, "let us make the morning sky blush!"

I was going to be late, but it did not matter. The baby would awaken before long and start crying, but for the time being, that did not matter, either. Depth was what she asked for and although I could not articulate those words exactly, Sylvia could read my thoughts. If only I could have disappeared inside of her. If only I could have made myself so small that I would have the ability to make love to every cell that she was composed of. My caresses would go beyond each inch of flesh and strand of hair. I would reside within the splendid atriums of her crimson heart and each breath in my lungs, each noise in my ears would be Sylvia! Softly, I cradled her head with both hands and massaged the glorious skin on the back of her swanlike neck with my thumbs. It was as white and smooth as a sandstone mountain and filled with untouched caverns where simple breaths flourished into deep, resonant and lustful moans.

I knew her face from memory, how those slender features could sharpen with intellect, glower with childlike charm and convey her love for me in a single, tender smile. I also knew that hot blush, that struggle for breath and comprehension, the shape that her mouth made, the blissful fog of a glaze that covered the green valleys in her eyes when I, when my body, of all things, pleased her in full. In the exquisite arch of her collarbone, I remained until my strength was spent. Men should not swoon, they should remain strong and quiet in their release, but I did nothing of the sort. I cried her name, her sweet name, in powerful weakness, in joyful anguish and paused to marvel at the face that name belonged to. I had always suspected such musings to make my own face vacant and unintelligent, but those eyes looked upon me as though the love that we shared was aglow on my mortal form—and I had been rendered a god.

In a frail, suffocating whisper, Sylvia made the most unexpected observation, "Beautiful," said she, "may I call you beautiful, Sweetheart?"

"For you." Bashful as this comment had made me, she remained unchanged. Entranced. So lost inside of the loveliness that she had somehow managed to glimpse in me, that, humbly, I had to wonder if she ever would return. "Because of you, there is nothing that I cannot be." Even the Sylph, I thought. She chose me. Out of every man who ever lived, Sylvia Ballard had chosen me to be her muse, and I would become immortal because she had decided that it would be so.

She covered me with that adoring gaze, acknowledging every freckle and battle scar as though they were grace notes in a larger symphony. My only wish is that I could do for her what she did for me on that cold, golden morning. Heaven knows, I tried to recreate it once or twice. "Close your eyes, Sweetheart," she muttered, softly laying me down on the driest patch of sheets. Whether by kiss or caress, not a space between my fingers or a hair upon my head went unacknowledged. "I adore you," Sylvia would whisper on occasion, "all of you. I will gladly spend the rest of my life creating music if only to capture everything that you are. From every thought that you have ever had to each canyon and flake of blue in your eyes. My life's work is to share your beauty with all the world."

I held her, bargaining one minute after another from the ticking grandfather clock down the hall. Her obligation to Sebastian when he awoke was what severed us from one another, but she continued to watch me as I dressed. My shyness had weighed our marriage down before. I feared that Sylvia's affection for me would wear thin and was foolish to do so. We strengthened old bonds during those first few days in our New York home and forged some new and lasting ones, too. Covered by nothing but the morning light and with our feeding child at her breast, Sylvia came to bid me farewell.

"Why must even the smallest of our partings break my heart?" I asked as she collected my hair and lazily tightened a thin, black ribbon at the base of my neck with one hand. It was hardly uniform, but it would have to do. I was seated at a hearthside chair and planted a deep kiss on the outside of her thigh before standing to hold both of my darlings to my heart.

"Be careful," she beamed as I kissed her lips, "I shall write you a new song today."

 **That was… an extraordinarily small and sickeningly sweet "bonus" chapter, I know. The next chapter is going to be quite comical and starting it off with this scene, just didn't make sense. So, I'm letting it stand alone. Lol. Hopefully, that is okay! More on the way this weekend! X**


	28. The Wild

The offices were somber that morning. I left Sylvia only briefly, to inform them that my location and plans had changed. Had I been needed in New Jersey, there would have been consequences and besides, I was eager to erase any concern that John might have had for my wife. Most importantly, any measures that could be taken, any promise, however small, that my family would be protected in New York, that was what I was after. Instead of such a conversation, John asked that I finish giving my personal recollection of what I saw in the woods. This came in the form of mountainous paperwork and to be honest, my heart was elsewhere. There was no safer neighborhood than the one that Sylvia and I had taken residence in, it was clean, quiet and thoroughly well-to-do. The men whose wives and children were targeted did not live in such sheltered quarters. If they were not in smaller city dwellings, their homes were rural and susceptible to attacks. Still, my instincts warned me that the situation was too good to be true and therefore, could not be fully trusted.

"You have not asked about my wife," I told John, casually as I gave my quill and hand a rest.

He could not be bothered, which was strange. I began to wonder if I might have missed a formality or done something to insult my colleagues by abandoning him so swiftly when last we met. I waved my hand over the parchment, in hopes of having the ink dry faster. There was a market down the street that I planned on visiting. There, I could find some fresh fruit and tea for Sylvia and perhaps there would still be an opportunity to prepare food for her in the kitchen of our home before the servants arrived to do so. It was a silly thought, a simple thought, but it carried me through those long morning hours. I was going to inquire about our next procedure when I heard a voice coming from behind a closed door, one that I would have known anywhere. That recognizable voice gave me such a strange medley of comfort and terror. It belonged to General Ballard.

"Captain Bordon," John, naturally, called me away. So, now he was willing to speak. After my own interest in conversing with him had fallen away. "I understand that your living arrangements have changed." Blankly, I searched my pocket for his key. That must have been what he wanted, after all. "What are you doing?"

"Key," my hand had reached so deeply that it nearly threw me off balance and I stumbled slightly. It was not so much John's cold shoulder earlier that made me so terribly awkward but knowing that my own father in law had walked right past me. The key was not there. It was in my other pair of trousers that were back in the same room as the General's naked daughter. Even now, such a concept made me flush. "My apologies, Major."

"I would like to invite you and your family to the theatre this evening," he gave me one of his transparently charming smiles and must have seen the concern that arose on my equally honest face. "Captain. You might not believe this but raising a child to be a hermit will simply not do. Your son will come to resent you when he learns of all the opportunities that he missed. Especially in a city such as this! Your wife, I am certain, is already aware-"

"Please," I raised my hand, peacefully interrupting him, "do not prejudge my family and I. I want only what is best for them."

"The theatre!" John continued, unshaken. "The General is welcome to attend, assuming he will ever get out of there. At this rate, he shall be trapped inside that stuffy room until tomorrow morning!"

I cornered him as he started to walk away, "Why has the General come? First Sylvia arrives without so much as a preceding note. And now," my dreadfully overactive mind, as ever, forced me to bite down hard on my tongue. If I was the one keeping my family's affairs in order, I was doing a very poor job.

"Boris, my friend. You think too much. I shall be at your door at seven sharp."

Waiting for General Ballard was a fruitless endeavor. When the afternoon faded into early evening, I headed home without any information of Barnabas or Thorne, where my unpredictable career would lead me next or any antidote to calm the anxiety that I felt. All that I had now was a hand cramp and a sore back from writing all day. Sylvia was what I needed. Knowing that she was so close, and all alone was intoxicating and addictive. If her being there was the trap that my morbidly creative conscience believed the situation to be, well… it was hopeless. I could hear her music from the street and see her silhouette from behind the sheer curtain in the highest room.

Her hair was down, her movements, unhinged. I loved this new Sylvia, how wild she became when her estate was in the distance and the world's endless possibilities were drawing nigh. Her father was in town and now we had an evening engagement to attend together, but there remained a dark impulse in me that treated her living there like the honeymoon that we never had. I would burst through that door, run up those stairs and make love to her on the windowsill while she was still consumed by sweet melody. Like a siren baiting a weary sailor, she appeared to be in the same frame of mind. The gown that she had on left nothing for memory or imagination. She had been grazing lightly on a bowl of fresh cherries and the juices had painted her lips a pretty hue and left her fingertips red around the blackness of those inevitable ink stains.

"You are early," the corner of her eye wrinkled as she gave me a sideways grin. "I went to the market while you were away."

"Not dressed like that, I hope," I held her, closer than I had intended. I could have told her that her father was downtown, I could have reprimanded her for leaving the house while she was in potential danger, but, no. My undying lust for her overruled such notions. "It would be cruel to show every gentleman in New York what they are missing out on, don't you think?"

Sylvia pecked my lower lip and touched those elegant hands of hers to my shirt, "I wore a coat," she sighed as I stroked the circumference of each supple bosom, "but I'll have you know, my love, that I was stark naked underneath!"

"We'd best hurry," my heart began to race. Such a man. Such a dreadfully predictable man I am! "We are to attend a show in this evening. Please don't detest me."

"Why would I detest you?! Come!" She sat on the edge of the windowsill and prepared to play. "Now, I'll warn you, it's a bit rough. Sort of a new technique that I have never tried before." Although the violin was beneath her chin, her bow hand continued to clutch the lace at the base of her gown. "Oh, how I love new experiences," the smile on her face brightened as I knelt on the wooden floor and finished that soft unveiling.

I loved that bit of her anatomy, that miraculous region of land that was ours to share. It was my portal to ecstasy, a fertile ground for bringing forth new life and there were still so many miles to be touched and explored. A taste. It was as ripe and tempting as the fragrant cherries on the windowsill. I started with an alarmingly timid kiss, going deeper only after the first note was played. The melody underscored and inspired where I journeyed. There was a draft in the window, pushing in cold air from outside, that was my only reminder of the season. Indoors, it was Springtime. She tasted like the first warm breath of March, when fog curls skyward from the ground. She smelled like the morning air, humid and fresh with a promise of renewal on the breeze. Together, we were rainfall, we were cloud breaks and sunlight. She did not miss a beat, not even as her own gentle rain poured over the horizon line of my lips and tongue. Her sighs were melodious improvisations, they made the song come to life, the pleasure that I gave her made it ours.

"That is just one number," she mumbled, her voice glistened like a hidden treasure beneath the depths of those lusty breaths, "one of so many others. Each one shall be a song of love for every bit of you, body and soul."

I moved her leg so that it hung like a bit of white silk against my back. "And what part of me is this first song dedicated to?"

We reached a tiny lull. Ever since our reunion, our urge to make love was paramount. I expected that concert hall-ready piece that Sylvia had deemed a "rough draft" to belong to a rather scandalous body part of mine. The sweetness of her vigil, the simplicity of the warmth in her eyes, informed me that the song was written for something else. "Just there," her fingertip, tiny and plump as a rosebud warming in the sun, traveled to the center of my top lip. She traced it, the small, indenting curve that an artist might call a "cupid's bow". I knew that I had this, most people do, but it was the last feature in my reflection that I cared to pay any attention to. "I can feel it when you kiss me, and I could feel it just now. It is beautiful. So beautiful."

"Play it again," I smiled bashfully, retreating to the depths. This time, my touch was light, no more than a brush of my lips against that hallowed ground. From behind and from the street, there was no denying how wicked we looked. But for me, it was sweet. For Sylvia, it was art. As my kiss turned into a gentle, albeit deep bite, the music halted, and she lifted her back from the glass.

"Dammit, Captain Bordon!" As General Ballard's voice blasted from across the room, I froze and looked up at Sylvia in fear. "She is a lady! Not a fine portrait and if your intention was to nail her to the wall, you have missed. A window? A window?! Half of the city has gathered outside to gander at this cheap little carnival act and-" Sebastian started to cry. "And in front of a child, too?!" If Sylvia was blushing, I was redder than the reddest cherry in the bowl that had, unbeknownst to both of us until now, been knocked over during her short-lived seizure of beautiful passion. "I hope you are happy. You have turned my daughter into a heathen!"

"That's enough, Papa," Sylvia droned, cradling the crying baby. "I know what it must have looked like, but Boris was-"

"-Mrs. Bordon misplaced a buckle on her shoe, Sir," I looked down at the floor and prayed that there were shoes hidden beneath the length of her gown and if not, that her feet had gone unnoticed while the General was enduring such a terrible shock, "I was merely assisting her before our evening engagement. Which we should prepare for. Will you be attending it with us?"

"I shall be here, Captain," he glowered, "finishing the arrangements on your lease. Perhaps even looking after your poor, traumatized son. It is the least that I can do."

I thanked him, of course. We had just recently landed on good terms with one another, but somehow, I always managed to embarrass myself in the worst possible way. At the very least, I was now looking forward to our outing and no longer yearning for another quiet evening in. Sylvia washed and dressed in silent obedience and I felt badly for glancing at her from across the room. Even as we strolled with John down the street, there was a tinge of shyness when my eyes wandered to the curvature of her waist and the milk white sheen that the moonlight cast upon her cleavage. My hand and hers collided as we stepped into the noisy building. It was gloved, yet again, hidden away, just as her father intended.

"Sylvia," I slipped my thumb in the glove's opening and smoothed my thumb over the top of her concealed hand, "propriety is silly. Let us be wild."

She looked around, there were many dark corners in the theatre where we could hide. The appeal, the urge was undeniable, but as we stood, hand in hand at the entrance, we were spotted by someone we knew and were forced into conversation. With a pint of beer clutched blatantly in his hand and dressed in obscure fool's costume (complete with a bell'd cap), Pastor Benson staggered toward us.

"I heard about you two!" He pointed and very nearly jammed his fingernail in my eye. "You were the talk of the neighborhood earlier! Stuffin' the muffin wherever you please! Ah! That is the glory of true love right there! And to think! 'Twas I who introduced you to one another in the first place!" He belched and hobbled alongside us for several feet before disappearing behind a nearby curtain.

John arched his eyebrow and showed us to our seats, "You do live in a rather crowded district. But the rest is pure exaggeration, I'm sure."

"Stuffin' the muffin?" Sylvia dropped her eyes and surprisingly enough, started to laugh. "Poor Pastor Benson needs to check his facts next time but… stuffin' the muffin?! Oh, that is terrible…"


	29. Smoke and Mirrors

With our sexual impulses off the table for the time being, Sylvia and I enjoyed ourselves at the theatre. We were seated closely, side by side and I smiled most brightly when she exchanged her glove for the comforting enclosure of my own hands. It was a light performance, a comedy. While watching the stage and laughing in response to Pastor Benson's antics, I also marveled at the landscape- every mountain range and flattened plain that made my wife's hands. I couldn't help but revisit the first night that I touched them, when she undressed those unearthly fingers in the estate's cellar and shared with me her deepest secret. We were virgins then and yet, even now, even after gaining such an intimate knowledge of everything the other was made of, we remained fixated on these dear minutiae- she, my cupid's bow and I, the permanent indentions on her fingertips that the strings of her instrument had branded her with.

"Their violinist is rubbish," she whispered in my ear, lingering just long enough for me to adore her hot breath on my neck. "And the cello will die of shame before the night is spent. I have an idea, Boris," as she broke away from my atmosphere, her smile illuminated the dark room like sunlight. "What if I were to audition!? I could play behind a curtain or in the pit. Nobody would ever have to see me!" She must have felt the perspiration on my palm or otherwise felt my nerves spring alive because she heaved a sigh and abandoned the thought without even waiting to hear where my mind was.

In the corner of my eye, I could see John craning his neck. He heard something, something that I suspected he was listening for all night. I tried to relax, tried to remind myself that I was among friends, but the feeling that had been lurking in my gut for the last couple of months was beginning to swell.

"Captain," John's hand fell heavily on my shoulder as the candles were unshaded and intermission began, "I must step outside for a moment."

Sylvia sulked in her seat and made her irritation known with a rather childlike, "I'll have you know that I am very upset."

"Tonight," I begged, not wanting to start a fight, "let us save this discussion for tonight when we are at home."

The kiss that I gave her lovely knuckles only ignited her defiance, "I need the powder room. And no!" She glared as I shifted my weight, meaning to rise and follow her there. "I do not require your assistance. Stay here, why don't you! And meditate upon how utterly two-sided you can be, Boris!"

There was no hiding my defeat. She had snapped at me before, but this time it packed a definitive punch because what she said was so true. Supporting and even loving such a spirited, gifted woman was to swim against a raging current. What she did not know was that I wanted her to play her violin at that theatre, I wanted her to take ownership of every composition she had ever conjured up. She was the great magician, I was nothing more than her harebrained assistant and yet, it was I who held all of the power. I was still learning how to wield it, how to call the punches without stepping on her toes. This evening, I had failed her with nothing more than a nervous glance. There was no telling what my other unjust punishments my apprehension would lay on her shoulders next! I sat there in absolute woe. When John reappeared, he took notice of my obvious distress.

"Crying at a comedy," he pushed me down the bench a ways. Rough consolation. Testosterone is such a peculiar thing. "Did you and the Mrs have a domestic?"

I looked up, pulling my hands away from my face. "Sylvia was cross with me."

He scowled, as though I were nothing more than a blubbering infant and he an indifferent parent. "You are being watched."

John's lips curled into sneer as he pointed to an onlooker who was seated with his legs dangling over the nearest balcony. Hurriedly, I dried my eyes and took a better look. Banastre Tarleton, of all people, was watching my little episode unfold through a pair of golden opera glasses and heavens, did he appear to be enjoying himself! Every blood vessel in my body reached optimum heat and burst on the spot like kernels of corn. I wanted more than anything to throttle that damned man. Not only for his ridicule, but for Sylvia, who had asked me to do just that the next time that I saw him. That would be the perfect way to make amends with my wife! Head upstairs and push that chuckling fool over the edge and into the orchestra pit like a ragdoll! Enraged and enamored with the freshly penned plotline of my heroic quest, I leapt to my feet and started towards the stairway that Sylvia would appear beside at any moment, ready to bear witness to my triumph. That was how I had planned it, at least. She would have to be the scene's most engaged spectator! Otherwise, what would be the point?

I was a quarter of a way through the house when that folksy screech of an intermission tune cut out. It could not have been the start of the next act, no! Everyone in the audience was either mingling or engaged in rhapsodic pockets of conversation, most likely discussing how the Pastor had accidentally lost his trousers in the scene with the nun. Such scandal! But like the caterwauling of that "rubbish" violinist's song, that topic of conversation was quickly dropped and exchanged for praise. Praise for the next number and clearly, to even the most poorly trained ear in the house, the change of musicians. She could play behind a curtain, she could play across town, she could play in a noisy bell tower during a thunder storm and I would know in an instant that it was Sylvia. The conversing ended and everyone returned to their seats, just to listen to her rendition of the comedy's simple score. It was not her own composition. I prayed to God that she would not be so bold, but there were so many insertions of who she was as a musician from the slowing of the tempo to the flourishing interludes that were clearly improvised.

"That woman," John, of course, jostled my shoulder from behind, "she is a runaway carriage. You must either pull hard on the reins or sit back and allow her to carry you to someplace unexpected." As we neared our seats, he whispered slyly, "I know who she is. I have been picking away at this puzzle for weeks now, Boris. She is from New Jersey, she takes those accursed gloves with her everywhere and as an aficionado, myself, I know what hours of playing can do to a person's fingers. Let alone a lady!" I was going to hush him, but a neighboring playgoer did the job for me. The volume of John's voice dropped, just as Sylvia reached an indulgent crescendo. I might have blushed. Nay, I'm certain that I did! Remember, my Sylph handled her violin as though it were a lover. The musicality of her lovemaking always had and always will arouse me, especially in those tenderly cataclysmic climaxes! I held my breath. "I know who she is," John repeated, "and your secret is safe here."

The remainder of the play was most torturous. I kept expecting her to return, to stop playing and retreat to my side before anyone could realize who that mysterious angel in the wings truly was. There were others back there with her, seamstresses and dressers assisting the actors, technicians with their ropes and pulleys, and that dethroned accompanist was surely nearby. I felt violated, as peculiar as it sounds. I felt as though a part of me that should not belong to anyone else was snatched away in the night. "How can it possibly be safe?" I murmured beneath a noisy applause. "I feel as though I am attending a circus and my wife has volunteered, with no prior meditation or safety nets, to walk on a tightrope!"

"If you start crying again I am going to murder you in your sleep, Captain. Besides, as of tonight, you are part of the company, too." He caught my livid glare. "Don't you look at me like that. With a voice like yours, it would be a damned waste not to recruit you to the world of the theatre!"

"As a soldier, Sir, I am certain that you are aware of the constraints on my schedule…"

"That never stopped me." Even in the dim light, a blind man would have been able to see that wicked wink of his. I was confused, and it showed, so John elaborated. "Check your programme, why don't you? Tell me who the director and writer of this fine little theatric is."

The scrap of paper in my hands was positively contorted at this time. The ink had smudged between my sweating palms, rendering it barely readable. Yet, I was able to glimpse the outline of a name. "Unbelievable. You?"

"The musician that you heard before was Mildred Benson. She is the Pastor's sister and was, frankly, so inebriated earlier that being relieved by Mrs. Bordon so that she might go and nap in the haystack outside, most likely made her night. Trust me on this, Boris, nothing is quite so dramatic as it seems!"

I hunched over and held that pitiful position until the curtain call, at which point, I was forced to stand. Typically, those playing in the orchestra pit and the wings would not go unacknowledged. I was mortified just thinking about what would happen next. Halfway through, I felt someone purposefully bump into my elbow and caught Sylvia in my periphery. She snuck back to her seat amidst the commotion and for now, her secret was safe. Now, the choice of reaction was up to me. I wanted to make my frustration known but casting it onto her seemed unfair. I reached for that divine hand of hers and held it tightly as the crowd applauded her ghost. We left the theatre without saying a word, John allowed this, though I knew that I had not heard the end of his plan to turn me, awkward, bumbling Boris Babcock Bordon into an actor!

"Are you still angry with me," I asked, holding her tightly as a gust of chilly wind traveled down the street.

Sylvia heaved a gentle sigh and changed our direction. She pushed my back against the still-warm windowpane of the neighborhood bakery and removed her gloves. Her naked fingers danced across my face and hairline before venturing to the back of my head. Her lips were fiery raindrops against my throat and as she moved closer still, I felt her passion rising sweetly. It was a kiss that she gave me, nothing more and yet, as we walked home, our satisfaction was undeniable. It was the sort of kiss that stops clocks and causes the landscape to melt like a wet oil painting in a fire. She silenced my fears, I stifled her rage. Her pink tongue was a voyager, lapping up my unspoken words and turning their sourness into sweet, golden honey.

"You are a runaway carriage," said I, my lips still reverberating with the forcefulness of her incredible passion, "and I pity the fool who tries to pull the reins or stand in your way."

Sylvia laughed, her neck straightened, then swayed gracefully to the side. "Our way," she corrected me. "Let us pity whoever tries to stand in our way. We are on this journey together, remember?" Our lips joined again in a silent and peaceful union. My tension had grown sore as my body relaxed, but now, all pain was beginning to melt away. I stole a glance at the stars that were beginning to appear in the heights of the wintertime sky. First fights are inevitable in all partnerships, but Sylvia had managed to make ours far more remarkable than others. As was her way.


	30. Milk and Muffins (Bonus Chapter)

Sylvia was not pleased, and I could hardly blame her for having such a reaction. We left the flat three hours prior and had no intention of returning until it was vacated. Not only had her father laid down invisible tacit rules with his presence, he had also invited Celeste and her daughter to come and live with us there. We brought Sebastian along to the theatre and even asked John if there was a back room for us to occupy until our little family fiasco was ironed out at last. All evening, we watched as Pastor Benson scuttled along behind John, pitching an idea for a theatric that he had penned.

I stretched out on the stage and placed my head in Sylvia's lap. Even from this angle, she was stunning. The lamplight caressed her soft façade as the baby tucked his face against her neck. I watched her kiss and nuzzle his hair. It was brown and red and gold all at once, the same shade as my own. How could I not grow pensive watching them? If Sebastian had resembled me before, it was almost frightening to think of what was to come! I could look at him now and see myself, reflected in perfect innocence. If ever I felt belittled, unworthy of angelic Sylvia's love, I would remember that she was Sebastian's mother. My small and forgettable contribution aside, she was the sole creator of someone who looked exactly like me. So many times, this evening included, he was what bridged us. He was my constant reminder that Sylvia and I were one.

"This is nice, Sweetheart," she looked down at me from her heavenly pool of light and laced the fingers of her free hand through my hair, "just me and my darlings."

As if on cue, Pastor Benson's voice rained down from the upstairs office, "I don't see what is so off-putting about calling a play 'What I Thought Was Ringworm'!"

"I think his creation sounds fascinating," Sylvia gave her beautiful shoulder a faint shrug, "where the ringworm fits into a story about milk and muffins, however…"

"He could always change it to another kind of worm. Perhaps an earthworm or mealworm! Then, the seamstress could sew Sebastian a little costume and he could have his own theatrical debut, as well! Of course, he would be susceptible to kicking and screaming. Not a common trait amongst worms…"

Sylvia grinned slyly, "Not if Viola was cast as his counterpart! She'd calm him down! I'm sure of it! Oh! Those two would be adorable to watch on stage!"

Dragging Celeste and Viola to the theatre seemed probable. I praised Sylvia for her original idea, but the memory of Banastre leering wickedly from his balcony seat was still fresh in my mind. I hadn't told Sylvia that he frequented the establishment. It would be a fiasco if he showed up again, one that my family was not prepared to endure. "Are you nervous at all, Sylvia?" I asked. "About having our family, your talent, existing in the public eye?"

"You have fought far greater battles than your own doubts." As ever, her encouragement comforted me and coaxed me in the direction of yet another unknown. We had but five more quiet minutes together on the stage until our friends scrambled downstairs, arguing all the way.

"On your feet, Lady and Gent!" Pastor Benson clapped his hands at us. "We are about to make history!"

This could mean anything, but when you consider the source from which this information originated, ridiculousness was a guarantee. I felt awkward and unnatural enough on the stage after being pried away from Sylvia's embrace and the discomfort increased tenfold when Pastor Benson and I started to improvise the first scene of the play. The plot was a tangled mess of undercut action and overtopped puns and the wily pastor insisted that John add them all to the script, which he was scribbling out frantically in the wings.

"Why have you," Pastor Benson shouted at me, racing across the stage and winding his arms widely and unnaturally, so they were faintly reminiscent of the oars of a sinking paddle boat, "You!? Master Muffin Man, come to my dairy farm?!"

I looked over at Sylvia who was choking back a laugh. "I have come to your dairy farm-"

"Speak up!" John reminded me, gently.

"I have come to your dairy farm because our village is in great peril!" Oddly enough, I surprised myself and everyone around us, with my dramatic delivery of that line.

"Peril, you say?!" Pastor Benson nearly screamed. "Have the worms returned to ravage our crops and… and… ravish our women?!"

"No," I shook my head, somehow managing to harness the same emotion of despair as before, "no, Master Milk Man, our crops remain safe from the plight of the worms. A great evil has descended upon us," my eyes ventured away from my scene partner, who had met this "news" with an elaborate cower. John seemed intrigued by where my creativity, if you would call it that, had taken me and gestured for me to proceed. "The Chamberlain!" I cried, hardly knowing where I was going with this. "The jealous Chamberlain has commissioned his own army and driven the good, noble family away! He has banished wine and festivities! And also, milk and muffins! Yes, it is true! Under his rule, we are limited to silty water and stale bread while he and his wife have all the sweets to themselves!"

The Pastor unrolled himself and sprung upward from the floor, initiating a break in the scene. "This is all good and well, but where do the worms fit into this all?"

Sylvia giggled, "That's right, I was speaking with Boris earlier about having Sebastian play a worm. Perhaps little Celeste, too."

Contemplatively, John began to brush the fibers of his feather pen across his lips. "What if you unleash the worms on the Chamberlain's house in the final scene? And they devour all of his sweets and muffins and cakes?!" He grinned, scribbling this new idea down. "This is the worst play ever written. Thank heavens the audience shall be drunk out of their minds when it makes its debut!"

 **I realized this morning that it's been a month since this story's last update. Indeed, between preparing for my last semester of college and therefore, graduate school, and trying to gain experience in my chosen field (teaching), I've been separated from my writing. Typing out this little bonus chapter today, goofy as it is, made my heart happier than it has been in well… a month. I need writing and need to find time for it. That is at the top of my priority list. Updates may be sparse, but they will be much more frequent. I promise. As always, thank you for reading my work. You guys are awesome! X**


	31. The Grand Illusion

It was a dreadful play. Dreadful, but well-received. Inebriation kept the audience enlightened and the cast on its toes. Truth be told, it made me a better performer. I didn't realize until opening night, just how much of my usual depth perception was lost on the stage. I could only see a quarter of the audience and even their faces became lost amidst the low lighting. John assumed the role of the evil Chamberlain and when the Milk Man was out in those makeshift "fields" of papier-mache dairy cows, bemoaning the loss of his business in a wistful soliloquy, he warned me of what I could not see from the stage. Silas and Barnabas were in attendance that night and had escaped after being detained in the back of the house. Apparently, unbeknownst to any of us, Barnabas had crept into the wings and was spotted by a seamstress as he approached my wife. Suddenly, the play did not matter to me. I collected Sebastian and Viola and grabbed Sylvia by the arm.

"Stop it," she hissed, focusing instead on improvising a melody to accompany Pastor Benson's performance. "Stop it this instant! You are throwing me off!"

I stifled the strings with my hand, halting the music for good. "We must hide." From where we were, we could see the whole of the stage, part of the audience and the stage right corridor. There was something about that square of darkness, framed by the crimson grand curtain and its golden tassels, that frightened me. I knew that we were being watched. "Now." I murmured, just as the blackness came to life and that familiar boy with eyes as black and inanimate as a shark's stepped into view.

He had the brashness, the air of invincibility, to strut across the stage and move towards us. Pastor Benson, still very much in character, screamed unintelligibly about the wellbeing of his dairy farm and hid behind one of the cows, a trembling mess.

"You are selling yourself short, my darling," Barnabas said aloud to Sylvia, for all to hear. "Why don't you step out here and take a bow? I believe I speak for everyone in this hellish dump when I say that the music is the only real art that is taking place here tonight! Come along, don't be shy!"

I could feel her budge. She didn't want the exposure, only to follow his orders. As I released her against my will, I saw his fingers wrap around a glimmering pistol butt that was just above the horizon line of his coat pocket. John and I had our uniforms stowed backstage, along with our arms. My pistol was being held no more than three feet away. "No, Sylvia," fear swallowed the whole of my voice, I had to trust that she heard the dry whisper in my throat. "Run."

My wife and my son were within range for a quarter of a second. That time would have been long enough for him to aim and shoot. She did not run towards him, but to John and the back exit of the building and I only moved once I knew that they were safe. Thinking only of the promise that I had made to Sylvia, I reached for the music that she had chosen not to improvise and the quill that she carried to capture the tunes that she wished to keep. In my other hand, I cocked my weapon. If his aim was better than my own, I would at least go down in plain sight and the audience would have to string the story for themselves, that those were my compositions that I had died holding on to. That I, a humble soldier and unseasoned actor, was their mysterious Sylph. I fired and hoped, only after his intention of killing me was clear. As he fell, I ordered that the house lights be lit and that all in the panicking room remain seated while we searched for Silas. The General and Celeste were the only two who did not listen. They ran backstage where they reunited with Sylvia and little Viola, who only started to cry alongside Sebastian after I shot Barnabas down.

Above the disorientation and the noisy pulsation in my ears, I heard a second gunshot coming from the other side of the open stage door. Sylvia cried out for me in pain and desperation and the world stopped turning. The only thought that remained in my mind as I ran to her was what I could have done differently. There were so many directions that I could have given her, so many different nooks to hide within and somehow, I rolled the dice and put her in harm's way. There was no Silas to be found when I stepped outside. No Sylvia at first, either, just the backs of John and Celeste as they stood over the injured.

"My wife and son," those were the first and only words to leave my mouth. I saw that Celeste was holding Viola close and John had a blissfully oblivious Sebastian in his arms. Sylvia, when she came into view, was leaning against the curb and pressing a lacy handkerchief to the top of her father's bloodied shoulder. Is it wicked that I felt relief just then? Of course, I feared for my father-in-law, but one glance proved that his wound was not fatal, merely a graze by a bullet, and above all, that my wife and child were unharmed. "He escaped?" I blathered to the General. "Then John and I shall find him! Before he harms anyone else!"

I might have suggested it, might have succumbed to my usual delusions of grandeur, but my heart was not in it and John could tell. Instead, I remained where I was truly required, with my family. The General, as ever, received only the best care. A military surgeon came to our flat and tended to his injury while I comforted Sylvia by the fire. Few words passed between us. She knew that I had killed before, but not before an audience- not in front of her. It was a statement, I thought, a promise to my family and community that I would keep them safe. Sylvia held me differently that night, not so much with fear, but with a sort of newness that I still cannot describe to this day.

"You killed that man's son," she murmured before sleep carried her away, "he will become vengeful. Will he not? I've kept it a secret from you for so long now, but I do believe that your fear of Silas and his son was justified. I laughed at your suspicions and I am sorry." Wearily, she glanced at me. I could tell by her expression that she knew that I was searching for some explanation or antidote. In the silence created by my own apprehension, she fell asleep on my chest. I carried her upstairs, past the grand room where Celeste and the babes were sleeping and placed her on our tiny, humble bed in the attic. I admired her in the moonlight and gave her lips an indulgent kiss goodnight. "You brought my music on the stage with you," she whispered. Her speech was broken and half-conscious. "You truly would do anything for me, wouldn't you?"

"Yes. Anything. Anything at all." Inspired by her beauty and vulnerability, I found my wording at last. "How strange it is, Sylvia, that it took me so long to realize why I enlisted. I was so confused that night, so certain that if I were to be someone like Banastre or your father or any one of those handsome, regal men in the ballroom, my empty life would have meaning, at last. Beneath that jumble of dialogue, of self-pity and loneliness, was a simple truth that existed within me from the first parcel that I delivered at your home. I am not your average loyalist. I am not your everyday officer. I am not a loyal subject to the King. At my core, I am like your father. I fight for something vast only because it contains something small, a seemingly insignificant treasure that I would lay my life down for. My life, my home, my dignity. I would suffer torture, starvation and death a thousand times over for you and Sebastian to live in comfort for one day more. Oh, Sylvia. I live to defend you. I answer to you and only you." From outside the room, I heard the pattering of boots. Sylvia was no longer aware of me or my whims of passion. In the place of words, I gave her second, soft kiss that carried the remainder of my promises for her before turning to see who had been watching.

"Boris," John crossed his arms over his chest, defensively. His eyes were weighted with what might have been tears had he not been so strong. "My friend. Come with me. I have an urgent matter to discuss with you."

I looked down at Sylvia. She was at peace and it in peace that she would remain until the morning. I feared the worst for her father, John's tone had made it so. Yet, I knew deep down that the General would last the night. After leaving her there in her soft pool of moonlight, I followed him and shut the door behind us. "What is wrong?"

He led me away, down the stairs at into the furthest corner of the dining room, where no one else could hear what was about to be said. "Boris, I have betrayed you." He leaned against the wall, a prisoner to his own words and thoughts. I had never seen him so distraught, so ashamed. "I betrayed you and put your family in harm's way. But you must understand, it was for a greater good. It was for all of those men. Our men. Who lost their wives and children to Silas and his son!"

"How?" I could feel myself smiling. In disbelief, perhaps. Inside, you must know, I was screaming. I was already prepared to murder my dearest friend, my only friend in all the world.

"All of my research, all of the scores, the opuses and concertos that he kept. They were all penned by the Sylph. Then when I saw his drawings. Oh, Boris. All that I had to do was hear her play to know who she was. That night at the theatre, when Sylvia left her seat, it was I who pulled the strings and asked that she play there. I knew that he would come. I-"

"Slow down," I begged. "You are babbling. Why don't you just tell it to me straight and be done with it?!"

He covered his face and slunk slowly down the wall. "I lured them in. I wanted to kill them. I was only doing my duty as a soldier." When John hit the floor, he glanced up at me from over the top of his knees. "It was a calculated decision, Boris. I knew what I was doing. I… I used your wife as bait tonight."

My legs buckled beneath my weight and yet, I held out my hand and pulled John to his feet. "I might kill you," I said, louder than I intended. "I should kill you. But instead, I will banish you from my home and never call you 'friend' again."

Seeing a broken John Andre had the power to change me forever. I should have felt enraged or even ennobled through the eloquence of my response. Instead, I was broken, too. I showed him to the door without a sound and when it closed behind him, I remained downstairs beside the dying fire. The reaction in my heart came as a surprise. It was the same shattering throb, the same scorching fist around the airway of my throat that I felt upon receiving Sylvia's letter when she "ended" our courtship. John Andre, through little comprehension of my own, had broken my heart.


	32. Hiding in the Shadows

A year would pass, four long seasons, until John and I crossed paths once more. I did not return to my duties in New York. Instead, I resorted to assisting my father-in-law in New Jersey. My world grew quiet, if only for a while. I traded out our beautiful new flat and all of its elaborate furnishings for the home that I was born in and had dreamt of sharing with Sylvia. We looked forward to our weekend visits to the estate, especially little Sebastian who always found his way to the muddy croquet field with Viola once they learned to crawl and eventually, to take their first stumbling steps. I was a cautious father; any leniency came from Sylvia. When the children were banished indoors during a rainstorm, she was the first to carry them outside when the last drop fell. It amused her, I think, watching them dig for earthworms in their fine clothes. Although I never enjoyed being met with the General's fury, they reminded me of how Sylvia might have been at that age, soiling her pretty dresses and gloves in the dark cellars of the estate.

"I'm just pleased to see Sebastian find something that he enjoys!" Sylvia told me one night as she scrubbed the dirt from underneath the tiny boy's fingernails. "If it's bugs he likes, then so be it! Perhaps in another year or two, we can find him a fine net to catch moths and butterflies in! Would you like that?" He turned to face her with a devilish grin and laugh. He might have had my eyes, nose and mouth, but his curiosity and sense of mischief was surely inherited from his mother's side. As she dried him off and held him, my heart warmed to see their tenderness, that unbreakable bond between mother and son.

In the night, Sebastian would manage to leave his crib, navigate the house and crawl into bed with us. It was a welcome intrusion most nights and we were happy to keep him there until daybreak. Other nights, the new emptiness that had taken over the darkest corners of my heart since we left New York would haunt me. I would leave Sylvia and sit beside the fire with a ration of fine wine and try to untangle those knots of pain in my chest. Once and only once, I found what might have been the answer. The wine, like the new footed armchairs and footrests that had colonized the room, was well-made, a gift from Sylvia's father. First, I was dizzied, then I was relaxed and the dream that I had caught, suspended and saved for later in my mind like a plump fly on a famished spider's web beckoned. There was no turning back.

The setting was obscure to me, a building in ruin in the middle of a forest. It was autumn there, but not the kind of autumn that is known to us in this world. Time moved slowly, and the trees were caught in a perpetual state of torture, between starving, waiting for the sun to arrive again in that whitewash sky and finding their hibernation, at last. It was a place where death was drawing nigh, but also put on hold. My feet seemed to know where they were going and so, I followed them into that open-aired fortress. The broken emblems and tattered flags gave ownership to this abolished castle of old, it belonged, very simply to England. It seemed to have little function until I found the chamber where the prisoners were kept. Nay, one. There was one man, awaiting execution. Without so much as a second thought, I went to him.

"I never thought that I would see you again," John lay on his side, he didn't even have to move his eyes to know that I was there. "But oh, how I have longed for your arrival."

I glared at him, confused and irritated by his melancholy. "Sit up," I demanded. "Quit wallowing and sit up." He obeyed, and our eyes met. I found myself immediately captivated by their blueness, their sadness, but also by their beauty. He was a handsome man, of this I was aware. I had never exactly marveled at him before. I had harbored jealousy, certainly, as well as the inescapable fear that Sylvia might abandon me for him if she was in John's presence long enough. But I felt that way towards every classically attractive man in our social circle. "Why am I here, John?"

"Out of the goodness of your heart, I assume," he picked up a fragment of stone on the floor and threw it at the furthest wall. "You are too good for this world. I trust you know that."

There was a sarcastic remark or two on my tongue, but I swallowed them whole. Memories of his goodness towards me, the violin that he brought me when I was wounded, the friendship that he offered me when I was broken and alone, those were what surfaced. "Why are you here, chained to a wall?"

"I suppose…" he touched the ground beside his right thigh, inviting me to sit with him, "this is where you want me to be. This is your dream, after all. My best guess is that you want me in a place where I can no longer run and hide- but face you. The morning execution must have some poetic justice, too. You want me dead. You want the world to see me and treat me like the traitor I was all along. I am here to grant that wish and fulfill your fantasy."

As he touched my face, I felt the thick calluses beneath his fingertips. They felt so much like Sylvia's, a connection, a touch that I had irrevocably categorized with softness, comfort and sex. The truth was, I had always seen him in this light. Something had happened the day that we met, his elegance, his talent, his passion for song had planted a seed in my soul. I had experienced it all and somehow managed to always look the other way. "It is only a dream?" I begged for reassurance and shut my eyes, feeling his breath surround me. "John, when I awaken, promise me that this memory and these feelings can remain here. Separate from my life with Sylvia. Please. I love Sylvia. I love Sylvia so dearly that I would rather die than betray her!"

"It will all vanish with the morning light," those strong fingers wove into my hairline and wandered lower to trace the back of my neck. His grip on me was firm, so different from Sylvia's adoring caresses and yet, the similarities were undeniable. I could feel my body responding to him and he laughed. We were so near to one another that I knew he felt it, too. "No man is all good, Boris. There is some darkness in us all, even you. What better place is there to hide those whims away within than the night?"

John kissed me first. It did not match our lust. It was quiet and soft, gradual, like a feather descending from the heavens to float upon the dark waters of a lake. He tasted the same as he always smelled to me, of vintage leather and wine. My lips and tongue did not protest, there was not an inch of my mortal form that did not crave him. Despite his initiation, all that I felt from him was the kiss. Perhaps he was more adept at concealing his desires, perhaps he did not want me quite as much as I wanted him. I was the one to remove my coat and shirt. He paused to look me over and just as Sylvia had done on occasion, he touched the deep scars on my chest. We both moved upright, maintaining a steady gaze. Then, John did something that I had not anticipated, he pressed his ear against my heart and held me tightly as he listened to its timid rhythm.

I laughed and smoothed his hair beneath my hand, "What are you doing?"

Listening," John shushed me, "listening for where I fit in." He held his hand up and I followed his command, remaining quiet and leaving him alone with my beating heart. "There. Right there. It is the faintest sound, barely an echo of a murmur. I doubt that you could find it now, but when you are faced with danger or left breathless by the unsurpassable brilliance of Sylvia's music, whenever your heart skips a beat, hold your hand to your chest and I will be there. An unwavering afterthought. A friend that shall remain with you until your dying day."

"I might want you to be more than afterthought, John." I held my hand beneath his chin and lowered my lips to his. This time, the kiss barely seemed mutual.

"That is all that I can ever be. Dawn is approaching, my dear friend. Long after I am gone, you will continue your life with Sylvia. Someday, Boris, through little help of my own, you will find your courage and be remembered for centuries to come. Can't you see that your fate is written in the stars? In that grand narrative, in the history books that our children's children and their grandchildren will study in school, you and I will be named together. Not as lovers, not as traitors to one another, but as loyal friends. Let that be enough."

"Will I see you again?" I grabbed his hand in dire urgency. "Will I see you again, John? Or is this the end?" From across the room, there came a blast of light that accompanied the approaching gold of morning and with it, an earsplitting sound. He slunk further to the ground in my arms. Neither of us had anticipated this end, but it seemed more humane than a march to the gallows. I did not see the face or form of that swift executioner, only the appearance of an entry wound in the soft, white flesh of John's temple. As I caught my breath, my hand leapt to my heart and there he was, a flicker of a beat against my palm. There was a place for him after all.

When I awoke, I was drenched in sweat and shaking in the cold. The fire had died with the rising of the sun and the conclusion of my dream. I stepped outside, remaining quiet for my sleeping family. It was a peaceful morning in early Spring, a direct contrast to the autumnal landscape of my dream. Yet, it had seemed so real. I leaned against the mighty tree on our lawn and began to weep. There, in that threshold between sleep and awake, I could have sworn that I loved the man who had nearly killed my wife, the friend who had broken my heart. I touched my chest as I cried and felt him.

"I wish that we had never met," I said, lowly, "I was complete before you stepped into my life. Now you are a part of me. I cannot undo this bond, I cannot revoke that dream. That nightmare." As I looked across the fields and patches of trees in the distance, a lone rider caught my eye. It was difficult, at first, to decipher where he was heading, but as he drew nearer, it was clear that he was coming to our home. He wore a bright red coat and had the fine posture of a seasoned rider. Deep inside, I prayed that it was John. Even then, in my defiance, I was enamored by the idea of dreaming of him and then having him arrive on my property. I longed to reach out to him and hold him in my arms, to let him find that abnormality in my heart that claimed his name. The truth, however, was that it was not John Andre who was approaching. That said, I did recognize him. My fantasy dissipated, and my head filled with questions, the most prominent of them being what Banastre Tarleton wanted with me at this hour.


	33. Banastre's Proposition

I will never understand how Banastre became so condescending and brash. He dismounted several feet away from where I stood and looked me over. The dampness in my eyes and the flush across my face went unconcealed and I knew that he saw that I had been crying. For another moment or two, he paused, pretending to assess the situation, but no man alive could comprehend the root of my tears. Even I did not understand them in full and Banastre's guess was as good as mine. He snorted arrogantly, passed me by without bothering to give me any greeting and strutted into my house with his helmet beneath his arm. I could hear him fumbling around in there, searching for a bottle of liquor or wine and a glass from the General's set of fine crystal. Surely, he would awaken the baby and startle Sylvia. She could handle herself better than I could on the occurrence of an intrusion and we slept with a rifle beneath our bed. She knew how to take aim and fire just as accurately as any man. Honestly, the only person in any immediate danger was Banastre, himself! I heaved a single, irritated sigh and trailed him indoors.

"What a darling little setup you have here!" He poured himself a glass of dark, expensive port and flopped down into my favorite chair. "I'm pleasantly surprised considering its such an ugly house. I suppose that dreadful exteriors and surprisingly decent interiors are a bit of a theme with you, Captain! Now, why have you been blubbering? I assume the Ballard woman has walked out on you, yes?"

I could see Sylvia tossing lightly in her sleep. "Lower your voice, please."

"Please," Banastre snickered, turning his attention to the music stand and violin beside the hearth. He drained his port, very nearly threw the glass on the side table and went to play a screeching, sour note on my wife's beloved instrument. If he wasn't treading dangerous waters before, he was as good as brutally murdered now! "Me? Quiet?! I play only fortissimo, you know that!"

"I do not know you, Banastre and I do not wish to."

"Well," the horrific attempt that he was making to follow and play the music in front of him came to a noisy halt, "then I suppose my work here is done! Pity. I would have rather enjoyed riding with you, Captain. Why, Major Andre himself put you in the most glorious light when he was recommending you to me. But let's face it, you are much to effeminate and weak to assume such a role! As for your physicality," he rose and approached me. I couldn't help but laugh. Everything from his perfectly groomed eyebrows to the freckles on his nose to his sheer lack of height stood out to me. If I didn't know any better, I would have sworn that he was talking about himself and not I! "You would have to cut out the pastries straight away if you wanted to keep up with us, Muffin Man."

"Are you done?"

Banastre rolled to and fro on his heels and smiled impishly, as was his way. "You amuse me, Captain. You always have. You snuck right under our noses, delivering those parcels and using that system to disperse your music throughout the colonies. Throughout the world! I must say, I was disappointed by how swiftly you disappeared after you blew your cover in New York. Your association with the Ballards is lost on me. Perhaps you could enlighten me one day. Then, there is your heroism to consider. You are smart. Complete shite at office work, but smart."

"You insult my husband and then you compliment him!" Sylvia trilled, standing upright in her nearly transparent nightgown. "I'd say the difference between you and Boris is that he is mentally adept enough to comprehend and articulate what is on his mind. You just drink and blather until your words become a massive tangle of stupidity around your ankles and when you try to step out of it, well… owie." She picked up Sebastian and whispered something to him about skipping out on formalities and inebriation and becoming a well-spoken gentleman like me. It was delightful, just the kind of passive-aggressive exchange that one might expect while Sylvia and Banastre shared the same air. "What sort of commission are you offering us?"

"That is between Captain Bordon and I!" He barked, pouring himself another drink and belching. "Discussing business with a woman? I have never heard of anything so vulgar!"

Had I been in the right mind, I would have defended her without a second thought. She deserved my gratitude for taking a stand against the man who had barged into our home. Furthermore, I believed that she should have a say in where my career brought me next. She and I were one, every obstacle and triumph that I experienced, we experienced together. On that morning, I am ashamed to admit that my heart had wandered from her side and was temporarily lost, searching for something that would never be. "Is it Major Andre's wish that I accept?"

Banastre gave Sylvia a self-satisfied sneer. "You were the first man that he recommended for the Green Dragoons. I rode to your door without delay after speaking with him."

"Is he well?" My voice faltered. Neither Sylvia nor I could believe what I was saying. Though, I'm sure that she took my response as mere apprehension.

"So much for comprehension and articulation!" Banastre gave my wife an irritating wink. "When you are ready to speak with me, _privately_ , about this matter, Captain, I shall be at the Iron Horse Pub downtown. Forgive me, Mrs. Bordon, I didn't mean to ruffle those pretty feathers of yours. Good day."

"My feathers are just fine, Colonel." She sat on the edge of the bed and together, we watched him leave. "That man has made a career of arriving at the most inconvenient times. Sweetheart, I have something that I must tell you," her green eyes, wise and calm, reached into my own and grabbed ahold of my soul. She could tell, just by looking at me, that I was troubled. "But first, tell me why you have been crying." I moved closer. I wanted to confess, but any explanation would fall short. "You've changed since the day we left New York. I know that it is lonesome out here. Perhaps if we relocated closer to town, closer to the estate. Boris, I won't be upset with you if you admit to being unhappy. I will work with you and try to set things right. You need only trust me."

"You shouldn't have insulted Banastre," my gaze moved from the floor to her face and I sensed a subtle change in her.

At first, she appeared confused, then hurt and then, she gave me sleepy Sebastian to hold and made for the door. The way that she flung it open and raced into the blue light of daybreak, I expected her to run after Banastre and call out to him, but Sylvia did no such thing. She hunched over, on the other side of a pile of trimmings from our garden and started to tremble and heave. I had never seen her go from wellness to sickness so quickly. I pulled her hair behind her ear and kept one hand steady on her back.

"I'm sorry," she would mumble every now and then, but it came in waves and before long, she couldn't speak at all.

I helped her through as best I could. There was a lull after several minutes and as she recovered in my arms, I whispered. "We must go to town now. You need to see a doctor right away."

"It will pass," Sylvia assured me. "It always does. Though, it was never this bad with Sebastian. Only during the last few months that I carried him. Boris," she knew my surprise, my elation, long before it broke through the concern on my face. "Yes, it is true. But I am worried about this baby. Something just doesn't feel right this time."

I held her and Sebastian tightly as we made for the stable. Perhaps Banastre could have helped when he was there. I would never know. "Why didn't you tell me?" I begged, touching my lips to Sylvia's soft, fragrant hair.

"I tried to last night. Around two, when it was at its worst. But you had fallen asleep away from me, by the fire again. Oh, Sweetheart. None of this is your fault. It might even be normal. My mother also struggled with her second daughter."

"I won't take any chances with you." I vowed as we started to ride away. It was impossible not to think on the last time that we had made love, how distant I had been- how confused. I used to savor every moment with Sylvia, I used to be so present. That evening, that sweet and lovely evening in Spring when I took her riding at the estate and laid her down in the lush grasses of a lonesome meadow, it should have been for only us. I knew without a doubt that it was in that place that this child had been conceived. My thoughts of John, those nameless regrets that had plagued my mind in a moment that God had reserved for Sylvia and I must have served as a toxin. My disloyalty, no matter how small, had caused such destruction and now, all that I could do was ride and pray for forgiveness. I would have to come clean somehow. I would have to climb deep into my heart, find the place where John resided and extract him forever. Sylvia, my son and the unborn angel who I had so condemned felt precious in my arms. How I could have ever lost sight of them in the pursuit of something so obscure, so fantastical and selfish, was lost on me. "I won't take any chances on you," I repeated, whipping the horse until it broke out into a frantic sprint on the empty road, "nor will I leave you or put any responsibility before you. You have my word, Sylvia. Our family comes first."


	34. Henry

In the months that followed, I grew numb to every emotion- save for desire and guilt. Every time that I purged my mind of John, a new dream would arrive, and I would be forced to live through it until morning. Desire descended upon me like a sickness and I prayed that it would pass, the same way that I prayed for Sylvia. Guilt was never far behind. It consumed me, poisoned me, and punished me without fail. I never admitted to her that I wanted our unborn child to simply perish, but that was my fondest wish, that her pregnancy would end just as swiftly and quietly as it began. I longed for the life that we had before, when we were only troubled by not having enough hours in the day to hold one another. I missed New York, the simplicity of our life, the liberation of the theatre and the purity of my friendship with Major Andre.

There was a disturbance, an imbalance, an omen within our mutual heart and I knew that it bore John's name. Sylvia felt it, too, with every tremor of pain and appearance of blood on our sheets. Still, she fought for the baby through desperate prayers and her avoidance of the physical demands of life- and of her violin. It is hard for me to describe her strength, impossible to comprehend it even now. My Sylph grew quiet, the tips of her fingers grew as soft as warm clay and not a drop of ink spilled onto her nails or the ivory flesh of her hands from flourishing March to golden September. When October came, my wish was finally granted.

Our family had traveled to Philadelphia, along with the General and his daughters. Graceful and refined, Sylvia refused to show her frailty to the world. In the night, however, she would collapse into my arms and hum new melodies to me, melodies that she was much too weak to capture on the page. A fine banquet was held there, and she remained composed, so well, in fact, that nobody would have guessed that she was less than two months shy of giving birth. I must have looked foolish and out of place beside her, constantly leaving the room to chase after Viola and Sebastian as they trailed mud through the halls.

"Oh, how lovely you are," I whispered to her as we watched the other couples turn and dance. "How absolutely lovely." She looked down at the crusting dirt and soil on my sleeves and searched the room for where the tyrannical toddlers had escaped to. "Don't worry, Darling. Celeste has taken them for a while."

"I wrote the concerto that they are playing, when I was thirteen years old. Pining over some handsome parcel boy in the pantry of my home," her face lit up. "Don't look so glum, Sweetheart. It is a happy thought. It gives me hope." That exquisite smile of hers grew as I kissed the back of her hand. "I loved you so. Even before I knew what it meant to love another. It's as if you taught me from afar. You are teaching me to this day, how to be selfless and good. I have been thinking lately, about the offer that Banastre made our family. Now, I know that you wanted to wait until after the baby comes, but-"

Her voice trailed off and became lost in the noise of the room. Had I known better, I would have appreciated the sacrifice that she was willing to make for me. I would have acknowledged the thought and care that she had put into her wording and understood the pain that such a selfless offer might bring her, but Sylvia, my sweet, radiant Sylvia evaporated into thin air when I saw who was watching me from across the ballroom. He was just as I remembered him, just as elegant and regal. Kingly, I thought, and blessed with a rare gift to change the lighting in any room with his mere presence. My heart grew frantic, like a wild animal that fell asleep in its tranquil jungle home only to awaken in a tiny cage. He was fixed before a window that looked out upon the colorful foliage of fall. This was the landscape that he resided within in each of my dreams, the earth's final statement of beauty before falling into winter's repose. I could not undo that association, could not forget each kiss that we had shared in my secret mind.

"Sweetheart," her fingers grazed my knee. "Restrain yourself. Remember, no violence. Not in front of my father. Although, I do wonder who had the audacity to invite that dreadful man! The Shippens, I assume."

John began to mingle but I knew that he felt my gaze upon him. On occasion, he would turn to see me watching. Celeste grew weary of the children and became engaged in a conversation with a striking young officer. Before long, it was Sylvia, Sebastian, Viola and myself in the corner. There, we would remain, taking in the rigid theatre of social discourse. Had I been a better man, I would have been more responsive to Sylvia. I could see her in my periphery, tapping her foot and moaning when the string quartet's tempo did not satisfy the original score. My awareness of her invisible restraints pained me. Just from that lovely side view, I understood her desire to leap to her feet, commandeer the nearest violin and play until those old calluses appeared on her fingertips once more. My mind held all of these thoughts, but they were utterly eclipsed by John.

Thank heavens he did not approach me. Thank heavens, forgive me, but thank heavens he did not leave when the festivities slowed and diminished altogether. I would have spoken to him then, but the General called me away and we engaged in a droll conversation about what Banastre had asked of me those many months ago. It was nothing that I hadn't heard before. We left the ballroom and moved into an adjacent corridor. Through the bay windows, I could just barely see Sylvia gravitate towards an abandoned music stand. John kept his distance, but he did watch her. Somehow, that steady gaze held his form there and I prayed that no confrontation would break out that would ultimately send him away. Eagerly, I sought for a chance to excuse myself and after General Ballard had droned on about the Green Dragoons for a good five minutes or so, he hiccupped, and I used that pause to take my leave.

John remained a smudge of red behind that barely transparent glass. Sylvia's coral dress had a similar effect. The ballroom was naught but a colorful, damp oil painting, thrown out into the rain by a frustrated artist. As I made my way towards them, the figures moved and met at the center of the room. They did not appear to be enraged with one another, as I had expected them to be. Sebastian and Viola, temporarily unsupervised, had thrown their shoes off and appeared to be conversing in their usual, secretive, unintelligible language about the sizes of their toes. I noticed this first, probably because I knew that I would have to face John and such a notion had made me collapse into my own shyness.

"Breathe, just breathe," I heard him mutter. Was it selfish to think that this sentiment was meant for me? "Breathe, Mrs. Bordon. Look. Your husband is on his way now."

"It is not yet time," Sylvia cried. As John wrapped his arm around her, she surrendered her weight to him. "I am not ready. The baby is not ready, either." All across the frilled bottom of her gown, a line of blood appeared. "Boris. I am sorry. All that I did was stand. I have been resting, just as the doctor advised," she called out for me a second time, followed by another heartbreaking apology to the heavens.

From within, an old fear stirred. Unbridled anguish had presided over her the first time that she gave birth. I should have thrown John aside and comforted her, myself, but I froze over with terror, instead. "John!" My words of welcome, of desire, of guilt, were reduced to a single plea. "Save her."

Like a coward, I scuttled alongside them, opening doors and inquiring for a place for Sylvia that was not on the floor. The servant's quarters were closest, and it was there that we were led, to a windowless room with rows of filthy cots. The pain contorted her body and I was asked to hold her still. This was my doing. My wickedness had cast a tempest upon the strongest woman I knew, a woman who would fight wolves for me with her bare hands, a woman who had given me so much and to whom I had given so little. She apologized for her screams, for how the distress had caused her to lose all composure. I should have weighed anchor by her side, but instead I watched John. Those strong hands ripped through my wife's clothing and waded in her blood. Any man would feel violated to see such a spectacle. To me, he was a deity, her savoir and my own. He wanted to save the baby, time and again, he would instruct Sylvia to push or hold back, trailing each demand with a promise that it was what was best for the child. As for me, my indifference was clear until that new life entered the room.

It should have been imperfect. It should have had some ailment to justify my desire for its demise. But our tiny son was just as beautiful and endearing as Sebastian. I loved him instantly. But it was a troubled love, a doomed love. He cried for only a minute as John held him. I struggled with my thoughts and cursed the warmth in my heart that came from seeing him holding a small and precious life in his hands. My mind conjured up another fantasy, one that would never be because it was so absurd, of starting life anew with John by my side and somehow, fostering a child of our own together. As ever, this thought tore me apart from the inside and forced me back into the room, to confront what was unfolding there.

"He is not crying anymore," Sylvia reached as far as her arm would allow, "why has he stopped crying?"

John seemed uncertain of what to do next, I had never seen him so confused or afraid, "I should leave you here with your family. And perhaps retrieve your father. Yes?"

Fresh tears moved across her already reddened eyes, but they were no match for her strength. "He will need a name. He was a person, just like you and I. And it was you, Major, who championed him and tried so selflessly to bring him into the world. Please. It is the only honor that I can possibly give you at this time."

John found his footing and moved closer to Sylvia's side. This was her first real glimpse of our second son. I saw in her, the same response that I had, a melancholy adoration for all that he was. "Henry," he smiled, as if in greeting and gave the quiet bundle to my wife to hold.

"Beautiful Henry," she gave him the same smile. All that I could do as I cried and cowered in my corner, was wonder how they both could be so strong. "You are loved. For as long as you lived, your mother and father loved you and we will love you every moment of every day for the rest of our lives. You will never be forgotten." John moved his hand to her shoulder and whispered sincere condolences to her, as though she was the only one who was suffering.

"My sisters and I used to gather flowers for every room in our house," Sylvia whispered to Henry. It was the same gentle tone that she assumed when she told Sebastian stories on the nights when he could not sleep. "I was the only one of us who was ever brave, or foolish, enough to steal roses from the garden. It was easier to break the bottom of the stem than the top, but I would always end up with more flowers than I needed. One day, I managed to break off a single, perfect rose to keep in a vase on my windowsill. What I did not know was that a tiny bud was also residing on the same stem. For a whole week, I would watch it. Even after its sister withered away, I prayed that the little bud would have a chance to become what God intended it to be. It opened only partly and lived for a single day, just long enough to feel the sun's warmth on its small petals, just long enough to be called a rose. I never knew that death and beauty could occupy the same space, but even as it nodded and withered away, that sweet rosebud was the loveliest flower in all of creation. That is who you are to me. That is how I shall remember you."


	35. Attempts to Reconcile

It was the heaviest silence that I had ever known. It started from the ground and built itself between Sylvia and I like an impenetrable fortress. She did not look at me for weeks and saved her smiles and loving gaze for Sebastian alone. I tried to comprehend why she looked at him in such a way, with such doleful sweetness every time he needed her or entered her field of vision. She held him differently, too, with a strange and desperate tightness. Even after she released him to play with his cousin, even after she lovingly tucked him away at night, he remained the nearest thing in all the world to her heart.

I watched the jeweled rings on her fingers glisten in the moonlight as we sat in the carriage that would bear us home to New Jersey. I had to find distractions like this to keep my eyes from straying to the window or finding any semblance of rest. My dreams and the golden shades of Fall were all reminders of John and I did not want to think on him, not there, not ever again. Sebastian was comfortably situated in her lap, dreaming of the only pleasantries that we found in Philadelphia. He was so unaware of it all. The miles that we were being laid between there and the grave of his brother. The emotions that were pulling his mother and I apart.

"I love you," I heard her murmur. To Sebastian, I assumed and so, I did not respond. "Boris. Please. We must mend this bridge between us. I know that you are angry with me. Heaven knows, I am angry with myself, too. But I love you."

As our eyes met, I saw how broken she was. Had my anger been misdirected? Had my confusion and pain presented itself to her as aggression? I did not know what she meant by those words, but the torture that her soul was enduring behind those eyes told me everything that I needed to know. "May I hold you?" My words were unrecognizable, I was speaking to her as if she were a stranger.

"The baby is sleeping. I do not want him to awaken and see his mother crying." As she retreated back into her own thoughts and world, a single tear appeared in the corner of her eye and she destroyed it, extinguished it with the side of her hand as though it were a single spark that might set a wooden home ablaze.

"I am not angry with you," my voice quivered, "I do not blame you for what happened. I love you, Sylvia, and that will never change."

"Oh, but there has been a change between us and it is eating us both alive. I know where you truly belong, and it is not here by my side. I know, Boris. I know to where your hopes bend." I didn't even try to appear as a man with nothing to hide. Sylvia might have contained her every tear, but I broke down in a heartbeat. I was ready to confess it all, to destroy my marriage and beg for mercy all at once. I was about to tell her that I had fallen in love again and that she shared my heart, unbeknownst, with John. A cry, however, an injured and pitiful sob took the place of my words. Instead of being the one to comfort her, I moved and placed my head on her shoulder. "I know," she muttered, kissing the corner of my face, "you are my husband, but you are also a soldier. I pulled you away from that world, from your next opportunity and used Henry as an excuse to keep you near. I believe that is why God took him away from us, because I knew that as long as I carried a sick baby, you would remain in New Jersey. Now he is gone, and I have nothing to hide behind. Now he is gone, and I have nothing but regret for my selfishness."

We remained still, our foreheads lightly pressed and struggling to maintain balance. "You are not the villain of this story." I whispered, but she did not seem persuaded.

"Oh, but I must be. I must take responsibility for what has been growing inside of me all along. All that we have known from the night that I first confided in you has been war. We do not make our own decisions; the war makes them for us. I can lie to myself all I want, but the truth has been clear from the start, it will take you from me. Whether in full or bit by bit, it will take the kind and loving man you are and change you. I saw it with my father, I have seen it with other men in my social circle. By taking lives, by killing, you will also kill my Boris. I tried to stop you in the only way that I knew how, and I killed, too."

There was no convincing her. Even if I could anesthetize her pain for a while, the blame that she carried for Henry's death ran just as deep as my own convictions. "What do you want me to do? What if we left the colonies without a trace? What if-"

"-I want you to go in the opposite direction of my desires for once. I want you take the commission that has been on hold for you because of me."

"And what of our marriage?" I looked down at Sebastian and envied his oblivion. "What of you and our boy?"

"We will simply stop pretending and be who we are for once- the wife and son of a soldier."

"You do not understand what this commission will do. I will obligated to leave New Jersey for weeks, months at a time! You and Sebastian will have to live alone, miles from your father's estate and I… there is no shame in the life that we live right now. I am happy to work for your father."

The pain in Sylvia's eyes began to scatter and float into nothingness, making way for a newfound strength. "Paperwork and armchairs are all good and well, but that is not the world that you were after when you enlisted. You never idolized my father the way that you idolized Banastre… or how you grew to idolize John. Oh, yes, Boris. I know. You change when he is nearby, the way that you look at him is so strange and wonderful. I know without a doubt that I had that same expression on my face the first time that I heard Mozart. You have my permission to follow that path. After what John did for you and I in Philadelphia, I believe that he will never be far behind wherever you go and will look after you when I cannot."

I enclosed her soft hands in my own and searched them for any trace of music that might have still resided in her bones. "He reminds me of you. I trust you know that. When I was wounded, he gave me a violin to play and it was my channel back to you. That cannot have been a coincidence." She moved closer and comforted me with a kiss that I did not deserve. I kept my eyes open, knowing that if I allowed myself to be swept away, it would be John that I felt and not her.

I marveled at her courage. The guilt that she had lived with and her ability to come clean about it all was unsurpassable. There would never be a better opportunity for me to inform her of my own sins, but I did not. She found sleep in my arms, perhaps she even found remnants of peace that night. I, on the other hand, was too afraid to dream. I loved her, there was no denying that I had loved her through her most recent trial and would be less of a man once I left her side to claim my place with the Green Dragoons. There is no way of comprehending the workings of a human heart, no possibility for exploration for all who venture into its chambers fall victim to its countless illusions and its mazes of trick mirrors. I never expected to love another alongside Sylvia, I never expected that he would be in Philadelphia- let alone that he would save her life and earn her forgiveness. But at what cost?

Her misinterpretations had saved me, my looks of love did not go unnoticed, but she had mistaken them for idolization, rather than burning desire. What would I do when I ran out of places to hide? What would happen the next time that John and I were alone in the same space? Surely, I would succumb to my emotions. Sylvia was wrong about so many things, but she was right about one- that the war would change me. It already had. I pulled her close and vowed beneath my breath that I would use this opportunity that she had given me to become a stronger man, a better man. I did not idolize John, no, I idolized her. I envied her honesty and would follow her example someday when I was stronger. I would not carry this secret to the grave, someday I would tell her that she was not the sole resident in my heart and that I was not the man that she believed me to be.

 **Another short chapter, but it was important and kind of needed to stand on its own. I will be picking up the pace in the coming chapters and might jump ahead chronologically, so I apologize in advance for that. Thanks for reading! X**


	36. Friendly Fire

As far as my keen distaste for combat is concerned, I needed no reminder. Tarleton was not a man to be questioned and I was not one to inquire for reasoning, so I willingly followed him into battle. My greatest challenge was not acclimation, I could ride, take aim, fire and use aggressive force when my life was on the line just as well as any man on the field. No, I was faced with a deeper trial, one that I had no other choice but to accept. I was good at taking lives. Better now that I had ever been, in fact. I could not confess to this in my letters home, so I internalized it all. I was different from the other dragoons, but only underneath my bruised and war-torn skin. I killed with efficiency, with rage and all suspected that I loathed the enemy with as much ferocity as the next man in my company. What they did not know was that I had harnessed my own self-loathing, my love for John, my love for Sylvia and the frustration that I had with my own cowardice. That was who I was killing. I looked for traces of myself in those young continentals, the ignorance in their eyes, the love notes and sketches of their sweethearts that tumbled from their breast pockets and onto the bloodstained ground as I cleaved their muscular bodies with my sword.

If Tarleton was impressed by my ruthlessness, he hid those thoughts well. He did not give praise, only to himself when he droned about his victories in the third person over ale. He did show great interest in creating rifts within the ranks all while maintaining order. For example, I was pitted against another dragoon called Robert Combs for everything from rations, to how many hours of sleep I was allowed, to the most profitable locations on the battlefield. What pleased Colonel Tarleton the most about this rivalry was that Combs and I were already associated with one another. I knew that I recognized him the day that he arrived. We were the same age and size, although I will openly confess that he was far more fair of face than I had ever been. "You're quite like Captain Bordon, only better." Banastre told him one day, if only to light a fire under my bum. It might have worked, but I was too preoccupied recalling the first time that I had seen him, flirting with Celeste in Philadelphia. Clearly, it was all a game to Tarleton. Having a child with Celeste and then abandoning them both did not wear down his conscience, even after she found someone new- it merely made Combs an eligible subject for ridicule alongside myself.

We kept to the countryside, though some nights we would venture into the smaller coastal villages to do away with traitors or raise hell in any way that Tarleton felt fit. I enjoyed finer and simpler things, like riding past the larger homes and listening to the sounds that floated out of the windows of their music rooms and parlors. Sylvia fell back into her old ways while I was gone, penning new melodies and releasing them to the market. I could hear her songs playing from a mile away. They kept me hopeful, cheerful and comforted. On those nights, I felt as if the past had resurrected itself. I was that young soldier once more, eagerly hunting for reminders, for subtle promises that Sylvia was out there waiting for me. There was no John then, no Henry to mourn or Sebastian to fear for. Our future together was an empty page, waiting to be filled with the notes of a song that the world had not yet heard. But where there was Sylvia and music, John was not far behind.

I saw him again, this time in starlit Brooklyn Harbor with a young woman on his arm. A lady of esteem, I wagered, by the gown she wore and the way that she composed herself while walking alongside him. They boarded a carriage and nestled closely, conserving their most secretive and tender of smiles for when they thought no one was looking. I must have turned green with envy, or made my pain evident to Tarleton somehow, he called me out right away and I blushed crimson as the carriage vanished into the night. He was more intelligent than he liked to let on and so, I feared that I had given myself away to him. This fear would grow in the coming days, following a confrontation near the boundary line of New Jersey with Thorne's rebel spies.

It was sudden and brief, a chaotic thunderstorm of gunfire from the trees, followed by a retreat when they saw what they were up against. After identifying Silas to Tarleton, my hands began to shake. I might have fired without any difficulty, but my aim was tragic. My punishment was swift and telling. I was not the one entrusted to pass this intelligence on to John. This order was given to Combs instead. Call it paranoia, the painful churning of a desperate mind, but this gesture told me that I had single handedly revealed the contents of my heart. Silence was the only remedy that provided amiable results, it was oldest friend and I chose to rely on it. As I look back now on the man that I have become, I can say with confidence that it was within the confines of silence that my demons hatched and nested, waiting for my next order to charge or a call to arms.

When I returned home to Sylvia after eight long months of serving with Tarleton, I did not travel alone. I was accompanied by Robert. The lovestruck fool was always writing letters to Celeste. I had passed sweet words along to my beloved wife and she remained true to her usual tradition of writing songs for me to play or hum when sleep and I could not quite find one another. Yet, while my letters home numbered fourteen, Robert and Celeste's exchanges were well into the twenties! He tore into the silence that surrounded me during our ride and begged me to enlighten him on my marriage to a Ballard. With a shrug, I gave him simple answers that only skirted the surface of what it was truly like have Sylvia as a wife. Naturally, I was the most adamant with my descriptions of the General and his gradual approval of his daughter and I. It warmed my heart to think of Sylvia. It truly did. So much, in fact, that I nearly forgot to ask how John was faring since Robert was the one to see him last. I did ask. I did and soon after, wished that I had not.

"The gentleman is anything but trustworthy," Robert said with a stretch and a groan when we stopped to let our horses graze for a while. "And I am not the only one who believes that to be true!"

"Tosh." I might have cringed at the dreadful vernacular that had rubbed off on me thanks to the other dragoons. "There isn't a man alive who I trust more than Major Andre."

"Not even General Ballard?"

I removed my helmet and wiped the sweat that had collected on my brow. It was a cloyingly ornate thing by Banastre's own design. I am not proud to admit that the long hours of wearing it had nearly caused my head to fuse with the innermost band. I might have escaped that evil, but I knew that it was responsible for the premature recession of my already weak hairline. Sylvia would notice this and laugh. John would, too, and I felt a chilling wave of embarrassment wash over my weary body as I thought on this. "Intelligence is a different world from ours," I murmured, "John plays the entire chess board because he knows the game in and out, but there is not a treacherous cell in his pinky nail. I would be willing to swear it before the King, himself."

Robert smiled. Blankly, I think. "… not even General Ballard?" He reiterated with the same cryptic expression as before. I held my tongue. "Do you love him?" My nerves combusted, the blood in my veins frosted over with fear. Banastre _had_ suspected me! He had, after all! Word must have spread like a wildfire through the ranks, knowledge of this illness, this black and festering root that had ripped through my soul and poisoned my mind against all that I had held dear was now common knowledge. "Do you love him?" Robert continued. Chuckling- if you can believe it, chuckling at my sudden paralysis. "The way that a son-in-law might? I only ask this because you and I appear to originate from a similar and more… humble lifestyle, compared to the Ballards. That and, quite candidly, the General terrifies me!"

I shut my eyes and swallowed hard, my mouth and tongue were papery and dry. I looked silly to him, I am sure, trembling, pale and fiddling stupidly with my riding gloves, watching the flat, green horizon for impending danger- or rather, any excuse to saddle up and continue our ride. "He still frightens me." I gave a quick, dismissive groan and decided to play on Robert's weakness to remove myself from peril. "What time are we expected to arrive? The General dislikes tardiness. He dislikes it very much."

We made great haste from that moment forward and I played the part well, a poor, young man frightened of any disapproval from a wealthy patriarch. As the terrain became familiar, I thought on Sylvia. Eight months is a long time to go without a woman's touch and she always welcomed me with such eagerness. Just the thought of holding her and feeling the power of her selfless love in every kiss drove me to distraction. My life had changed, my conscience, too- but homecomings would always remain sweet. Even if I was no longer deserving of those adoring glances and impending hours of tireless lovemaking. What tore me apart inside now was not how deeply I loved her, but the torture of holding two souls in my heart. I would allow her to consume me, to suspend what truly lived inside until I saw only her. I believed, truly believed, in that final hour of travel, that Sylvia would save me from myself.

When I saw the estate, I left Robert behind in a cloud of dust. I didn't bother with the doorman, I rode directly through the side gate and jumped the fence. My horse's hooves warped the metal pieces on the croquet field and uprooted several patches of grass. So much for the performance that I had given Robert! General Ballard would simply have to live with the damage that I had done to his landscape in my pursuit of his daughter! Sylvia and Celeste were in the garden that evening, with Sebastian and Viola at their feet. She did not see me at first because she was leaning over Sebastian and listening to him babble over one of the General's leather-bound biology books. He was examining what appeared to be the carcass of a colorful beetle and comparing it to a picture in the book's soiled pages. She was smiling at him and her nod of approval made my son smile, too. I caught Celeste's eye, then Viola's and then Sylvia came running towards me without delay. I dismounted so quickly that I very nearly lost my footing and tumbled to the ground. We held each other closely, wordlessly, for nearly a minute. I could feel both of our hearts racing, intent on breaking through our bodies and becoming one, too. The rosewater and finely milled soap that she had washed with that morning still resided on her flesh. I kissed her mouth with great depth, tasting oranges and tea and above all, Sylvia. It was her that all of my senses craved.

"I have missed you. Oh!" She paused, assessing a patch of dirt that she had transferred to my collar. "Sorry. All that boy of ours ever wants to do is dig for worms!" As she turned her pretty head, I smelled the sweet fragrance of her hair. "Sebastian? Do you have a kiss for Papa?" I was not enough to distract him from the jars of garden spiders and earth worms that he had compiled. "This is all he ever does. He has his own cataloguing system worked out and he's not yet three. Boris, I think," her smile was only temporarily spiked with severity, "I think he might be a genius!"

"He takes after his Mum," I brushed a wayward strand of her golden hair aside and kissed her a second time, realizing that I hadn't removed my helmet. I fiddled with it until it came off, without once leaving go of my wife.

"Your uniform changed," she observed, almost naively. "I approve." There was distance between us, new and strange. She looked at me, quietly taking in the chronology of tiny injuries that I had obtained since the last time that we saw one another. That and the new melancholy and weariness in my eyes. "You have changed, too."

"It's the ale," I smiled through my pain and gave her a tiny wink. "Rumor has it that too much of it can make a man shorter!"

"Really?" Sylvia saw and appreciated my cheekiness. "That must be it! Or merely spending too many hours around Banastre Tarleton. I wonder… can a man _catch_ stunted growth?!" Our fingers became interwoven, our bodies leaned against one another. She could not stop holding me and I wondered silently- why. I was not deserving of such an embrace, but I accepted it. After all, she was mine and I was hers.


	37. The Vanishing Point

We were meant to grow together, even in our time apart. As riding and combat strengthened me, it turned me into someone new. The stealth of Sylvia's fingers on the strings, the nearly mechanical precision of her bow and the otherworldly translation of her inner turmoil to music showed me how much she had grown as an artist in my months of being away. I was well on my way to becoming a fine soldier, but my personal triumphs were never surpassed by the Sylph. She was better than I, stronger and her devotion to our love put my own to shame. We were both experiencing growing pains, Sylvia and I, we were both becoming stronger as we struggled in the absence of one another. We took our heartaches and turned them into productivity and what was left over, we gave to one another through intimacy. At first, I feared that she was still recovering but she assured me that there was no embrace too tight, no depth that I could reach that would be too far from the surface of our skin. I touched her soul with my love and somehow, kept my own concealed.

"I dreamt of you every night," with a steady hand she held me near as I caught my breath, "but there is no dream real enough or sweet enough to replace what I have now. What did I ever do to deserve you?"

"Well, you were very beautiful and very persistent," I joked, giving the edge of her bare shoulder a gentle nip. She didn't seem interested in my playfulness, but I knew where to touch, where to stroke to make her sing. "I do not have an answer for you. You see, I often wonder what God was thinking when He made you." I moved, only enough to watch the moonlight kiss her naked form. "'Perfection' is far too simple a term for what he sculpted that day. I wonder what components he used, what colors from nature's palette he borrowed to paint the lush valleys in your eyes. How did he orchestrate the golden shadows in your hair and know how to make each tiny strand exquisite in every light? And this, oh, this-" my hands glided from her throat to her thighs and I savored the smoothness and warmth against my palms, "how many painstaking generations of trial and error, how many centuries of late nights at the drawing board and how many women, Sylvia, how many cities and regions and countries and globes did He have to fill before making you? I wonder every moment that I am with you- how? How is it possible that I hold the key to this secret world? How could I, of all men, be worthy of entry to this sanctuary to die at night and be born again each morning with the rising of the sun? I give you all of my hours and all of my heart and somehow, come up tragically short. I am the one who is unworthy. And you love me still, how?"

"I always knew that you were a poet. Perhaps you should lay down your arms and take up the quill," as my face reddened with embarrassment, Sylvia beamed. "Or perhaps not. I would hate the idea of having to share you with the world." She shut her eyes and blushed with pleasure. I was barely touching the innermost region of her thigh and yet, it was enough for her to pull me close. As we became one, the faintest gasp ascended from her lips, brushing across my own like the white, proportionally perfect wings of a moth. I saw the highest clouds, the lowest and blackest sands of the ocean floor, galaxies, and all of creation combined as we swept each other far away. In these hours that we shared, I could have sworn that she had saved me from myself. Sometimes, I would feel subtle reminders of the world that we left behind, the bones of her shoulders and back unfurled across my fingers. "Angel wings," I thought as I felt the framework that she was made of. I was grinning, stupidly, I am sure, as I reveled in all that she was. Through her ecstasy, she saw me and read my thoughts: that I was no poet and was simply in the presence of the personification of beauty. "Beautiful," she had called me this before and was intent on saying it until I believed that it was true, "it is a shame that you cannot see yourself as I do, but a rose can never behold itself in full, nor can a star see the beauty of its own light. I suppose that is why they are so far away, they would grow vain if they saw their own reflections in the mirror that is the sea."

"Now _you_ are the poet, my love." I kissed the dusting of sweat between her breasts, but not without wordless acknowledgement of the distant stars whose images could be found there. The time that we had together was growing short and it would not be long before these memories would be all that I had of Sylvia as I rode southeast with the dragoons. It was not a guiltless enterprise, to be lulled to sleep by the echo of her heart and the sensation of her fingertips against my neck and scalp. I was still deep inside of her, perfectly sheltered and surrounded by her while I slept. She comforted me and refused to leave go, even as she left this world to dream, her embrace did not budge. I believe that underneath it all, she knew that I was hurting. Heaven knows, there was no one who could translate my thoughts so well. She came close to uncovering my secret that night, merely by gazing inside of my soul. I awoke before her in the morning light and quietly wondered if she already knew. What if she did? What if my betrayal had unfolded before her and her only reaction was to hold onto me until it went away? It was a pretty notion, a lie that my mind had forged while it was still half-awake. I whispered words of gratitude and love into her ear and promised that in that moment, I was completely hers. If I could forget about my feelings for John for this one night, I could make them disappear for other nights, too and eventually, for the rest of our lives.

My final night visiting New Jersey was not so pleasant. Robert had his own quarters in the estate and despite his close proximity, we did not see much of him. Sylvia and I were on our own schedule, hermits, who rarely left one another's company, much to her father's dismay. He arranged for the five of us to all sit down for dinner on the eve of our departure. If preparing for such an event was akin to facing a firing squad for me, I can hardly imagine what poor Robert was going through. He was the one that General Ballard would be "interviewing", if you will. I could have relaxed, at least a fraction, but Sylvia thrust new concerns upon me with her behavior. She was openly distraught and did not touch a single one of the many divine courses that were placed on our table. Instead, she demanded a bottle of wine, of a lighter variety than the General's cabernet.

Both men watched me, waiting for me to intervene as Sylvia drained nearly an entire bottle of sweet mead. A light choice, certainly! A child's drink, if you ask me! I did not believe that a person of any build could become drunk by consuming mead, but it _did_ make my little swan rather tipsy. I expected her mood to lighten, but it had an opposite effect. She sulked in her seat and reached for my hand under the table. Once I accepted, she did not leave go and donned the most melancholy expression as she watched our entertainment. A young violinist in the quartet was challenged by one of the General's hand-picked pieces. I knew that expression well. She was about to put him out of his misery. I wolfed down my dessert, making sure to leave not a single crumb behind on the plate.

"A dance?" I asked my wife. The General showed neither distaste nor approval, he was preoccupied by making Robert uncomfortable with questions about Banastre. Sylvia accepted my offer. She was eager for closeness and motion and so was I. We left the table for the furthest corner of the room and engaged in a slow, lackluster waltz.

She placed her head against my chest, content with merely swaying to the rhythm of my beating heart. "How long must we wait for you? I do not know if I can endure another eight months. Neither can Sebastian. He is growing, and you are missing so much."

I wanted to remind her that I had chosen this path by her request, but she was in no condition to face honesty or even harshness. There was flare in the conversation at the table, a straightforward comparison between Robert's accomplishments and Tarleton's. I wondered if he knew that Banastre was Viola's father, I wondered if such a thing mattered at all. I could have spoken up or done something to alter the direction of their exchange. After all- I, too, had to inadvertently fight against Banastre Tarleton to gain Sylvia's hand. "One day at a time, my darling." I murmured, brushing my lips across the fine, golden curls on her hairline. "We have overcome far more fearsome storms." My reply was weak, but Sylvia accepted it and nuzzled closer. I think perhaps, she knew that there was no fulfilling her request for me to stay. All that she wanted was acknowledgement and a kind word or two to ease her suffering. She wanted to feel loved that night and I prepared my heart to be more giving than ever.

There was a window beside us. The candlelight was low enough and the moon was high enough in the sky to illuminate the waves of hills beyond the front gate. Dark trees collected on their peaks, swelling and frothing like seafoam as the breeze ruffled their verdant leaves. I touched the white ribbon of lace that Sylvia wore around her neck and slipped my thumb beneath it as I loosened the knot. From the table, it appeared that I was taking it and pocketing it as a memento to carry to the field. For Sylvia and I, it was a prologue for what would come once the formalities were over. I grinned at her, tracing that innocent line of concealed flesh beneath the white, ornamental fabric. Her skin was softer than satin, lovelier than lace and proved that dreadful noose of fashion superfluous. I looked over to see what her father was doing. Sylvia and I were the least of his worries, for once.

Her expression, which matched my own, was overcome by a tiny spark of wickedness. The curtain by the window was within her reach. She pulled it forward and pushed me into its dark confines. Now, she was leaning with her back against the glass and we were surrounded, more or less, by waves of crimson fabric. I kissed her with urgency, softness and a faintly playful laugh. We looked ridiculous, I am sure, but for that moment, we were young lovers again, seeking solitude and realness in the superficial rigidity of the world that she came from. I cradled her head so that it was no longer touching the window, only my palm and initiated a tender voyage across her tongue. The berries that the mead was made from were only newly tart, they sparkled and combusted like the bubbles in the champagne that we consumed on the night of our first dance.

Renewal. Something was born again. John was no longer at the forefront of my mind, he was a tiny dot on the horizon line of my heart. But even a simple meditation of how little he meant to me then, pulled me away from Sylvia. As our kiss deepened, I glanced out across the quiet night. Two riders were approaching fast, soldiers in regalia, prepared for an evening of rich conversation and expensive wine. Had I listened more intently to what was being said at the table, I would have known that two more guests would be arriving before the night was through. The women would be dismissed upstairs while the four of us remained below- Robert and I, along with Banastre and John.


	38. Hands

To have him nearby was a peculiar sensation. I was startled by his casualness, the aloof albeit elegant nod that he gave to Sylvia and I as he approached us. The many months that I had spent dreaming of him, assured and ashamed of what my fondness had blossomed into had rendered him mighty and immortal. Now that I was beholding him at such an intimate proximity, I was nearly startled by his commonness. The wrinkles in his uniform, the limp of fatigue in his stride and every imperfection that the evening breeze had blown into his hair were all so beautiful and new. I had forgotten his mortality, his smallness against the vast backdrop of the earth. Speaking to him was not unlike meeting a hero or a celebrity that I had admired from afar since boyhood. I do not believe that Sylvia saw me falter or witnessed the faint tremble in my bones as she and John conversed, leaving me to bask in their light. So, I stood for a while, a metaphor brought to life, a man torn between his wife and his dearest friend.

"I am not asking that you halt the production of your music. I am artist, too. I understand that you need that platform while your husband is away, but it is possible- nay, extremely easy- to tie your work back to this estate." John muttered to Sylvia from over the top of his wine glass. "That is why Banastre was so adamant to bring me here tonight. To warn you. To request that your family relocate, at least until this threat has been cleared."

Silent and fixated upon how John's hand had molded to Sylvia's shoulder and how alarmingly content she seemed to leave it there, I felt my heartrate swell. "Threat?" I said at last, ever a man of few words.

"A threat of vengeance," he shook his head, with sympathy, perhaps, but I could not say for certain, "it took Silas long enough. Massachusetts is the best that I can do. The location is rural and on the water should the occasion call for you to escape by sea. I will also see to it that the safehouse be well-guarded. I take no risks with our Sylph."

Sylvia looked to me, eagerly awaiting my thoughts on this strange new development. I had no answers to give. Only that if John thought it best to take my family out of New Jersey until Silas and his threat were ended, I would not object. She was called away from us and from across the room, Robert was asked to bid goodnight to Celeste. It seemed unfair to me that the women should leave while the men decided their destinies. If I were to endure eight more months of battle, far away from my Sylvia, I needed to know what conditions she was living under at all times. Yet again, I was torn. I trusted John's offer and his intentions, but I also honored Sylvia's apprehension.

"Will you be long?" She asked before kissing me goodnight. "Since you are leaving in the morning, every hour that you are here is incredibly precious to me and I-" her soft plea was rudely interrupted by the angry shattering of a glass in the dining room.

"Don't you dare challenge _me_ , Combs! And in the presence of General Ballard and these lovely ladies, no less! Have you no decency? Have you no class?" Banastre halted his rant just long enough to release what sounded like a cross between a hiccup and a belch. "I say we settle this like the _gentlemen_ we are once and for all!" The clanking spurs on his boots grew louder. John saw what was coming long before I did and heaved an exasperated sigh. "Boys!?" He stumbled between us, shot up to our height on the tips of his toes and placed one elbow on my right shoulder and one elbow on John's left. If Sylvia's hands were still on me, Banastre must have swept them off while I wasn't looking. "I need your assistance! Surely, there has never been a man on God's green earth to say 'no' to a little moonlit game of polo! Saddle up! It shall be Andre and I versus Bordon and Combs!"

Sylvia cleared her throat and stepped fearlessly in front of Banastre, who was now making for his next glass of brandy. No surprise there. "The game requires two teams of four, Colonel. Since poor Boris hardly knows the difference between equestrian polo and pedestrian croquet, I say he will be useless on the field." She gave me a gently apologetic wink. Though it embarrasses me slightly to say this, she had a fair point! "Why don't we ask Papa and the butler to play alongside Major Andre and yourself? Then, Celeste and I might join the opposition?"

Banastre snorted. Had he been taller than Sylvia, he might have been staring down his nose at her. As it were, he was trying to accomplish that gesture from below and appeared positively precious in this pursuit! "How would that improve the game for Combs and Bordon, exactly?" He gave my wife several seconds to respond but received only a catty smirk. "Very well. I shall see you on the field, Mrs. Bordon. But please know, this will not be your average Ballard Girl's pillow fight of a match on a sunny Sunday afternoon- no, no! We are _men_! And _soldiers_! And… and… _MEN_!" He stuck one finger in the air and spun on his heel, most effeminately, I might add, making for the nearest door with a crooked saunter.

It was clear to me that John did not approve of this little game that Banastre had initiated. He drilled the three of us, not only on precision, but our efficiency of time. In other words, he wanted to leave the field as quickly as possible so that he, Banastre, Combs and myself might be able to sit down with the General and discuss more pressing matters before daybreak. It did not help that the cocky Colonel continually rode into the line of the ball and General Ballard, ever the stickler for rules and regulations, called his teammate out. I, on the other hand, struggled with visibility. It was difficult to see where the ball was in the shadows, let alone the other mallets that were whacking blindly at the darkness. I struck Celeste's ankle once on accident and Robert gave me a vengeful push, if only to seem chivalrous. The only players who appeared to be engaged with the game were Sylvia and her father. I shadowed her.

At one point, she rolled the ball to me. I swung, missed and John took over the play. Banastre rode after him but pulled back when the flash and sound of gunfire transpired from a neighboring hilltop. A lone assassin. I don't believe that John was his sole target, but he was the only rider within range. Stupidly, the love that I had for him rose like a massive tidal wave in my chest, it washed my inhibitions clean away and I shot off into the blackness to shield John and protect him from harm. I did not mean to make a statement. To the others, I looked like a soldier protecting his comrade, but this was the moment that I knew it was all true. I was willing to die for him. There, in front of my family and friends, I nearly did.

There was no saying where the bullet hit. All that mattered was that John had been spared- and he had. I saw him flee to safety as my horse and I collapsed with a brutally rough stumble into the grass. The butler had escaped to the stables and returned with firearms. I could hear Banastre shouting as he returned fire. I could hear it all as my vision failed me. But that thunderous, murderous hailstorm of noise was no match for Sylvia's voice as she cried for me and fought against her father's restraint. The pain that I felt was numb, a buzz, a second wave coursing over me only this time, it was disorientation rather than my foolish devotion to John. I clutched weakly to my own consciousness, listening to the other soldiers as their pursuit began. Then, Sylvia. Her palms were cool and damp. I could not hear her words and could only decode panic from her presence.

She was searching me, tearing away my coat and hunting for an entry wound to bind. No such wound could be found, thank God. I felt her fingers across my brow next and remembered that I hadn't worn a helmet, none of us had. But I was in capable hands, motherly hands and there was no one on earth who I trusted more- save for one. Is it wicked to say that I dreamt of him until morning? Is it cruel that I looked past watchful Sylvia when I awoke and tried to find him in our room? She kept me still and held a cold compress against my temple. I went to remove her hand but found that I wanted only to hold it in my own and never let her go. I blame the tears that were flowing from her eyes for this sudden change of priorities.

"Is this what you do, Sweetheart? Throw yourself in front of gunfire for other men?"

I rubbed my lips together. They were dry and chapped. "The King's Army is a different world than the one that we are living in now," my voice was lower and scratchier than usual, "Major Andre is a greater asset than I."

"Oh, hush! There is no world in which you are worth less than a hundred-thousand Major Andres!" She moved back and forced a smile. "You saved his life. I should be proud of you. Oh, Boris. I have been in denial all this time. That was the nearest I have ever been to combat and now I know that I must come this close to losing you every day! Seeing you fall, I… it was my worst nightmare come true. It will haunt me forever."

"Sylvia", I aimed to wipe every tear from her cheek, but missed each one miserably. I longed to comfort her and had only my words to use towards this purpose. "We are meant to overcome these trials. There are titans at our door, tempests rising all around us, the earth below our feet has rumbled and split itself in two every day since our first falling and yet… we continue to hold fast. I will always return to you. Some day soon, I will arrive at your gate with news of England's victory and you and I shall return to who we were the night that I enlisted." I guided her hand into the lamplight and caressed the tip of each perfectly formed finger. "I have this fantasy, dear Sylvia. You reach for me as I dismount, you are wearing those same doeskin gloves as you always do and I- before all of the world, I undress the hands that have labored and dared and created with more courage than any man I have ever met. The hands that have known, pleased and cared for me in ways that I never knew possible before that evening in the cellar. I will marvel at all that they have done, the baby boy that they have guided on the path to manhood with little help of my own… I will marvel, Sylvia, at the hands that wrote the letters that kept me alive in the face of death and that never, not for an instant, let go of my own despite the many miles that stretched between us. Until that day, I have but one request. Hold fast."


	39. A Painful Confession

Although those unrequited affections never fully vanished, they did begin to fade with time. With every tender moment, every heartfelt promise that I gave to my wife, my yearnings for John also intensified. There seemed no escape. When I left New Jersey for New York, John headed for Philadelphia. I was worried and torn, riddled with anticipation for Sylvia's next letter from her safe holding in Massachusetts and heartbroken when I heard rumors of John's fiery affair with Miss Shippen. You may find what I am about to tell you surprising. It is a secret that I have shared with very few, a plague of embarrassment and shame that I once believed I had no other choice but to carry to the grave. Since you know this much, however, and since honesty is my highest aim in this strange chronicling of my life, I believe that I owe it to you to provide a full account of how I broke free from the chains that I so carelessly and selfishly wrapped around Major Andre and myself.

It all began with a commission, a feeble attempt from Banastre to seem decent. I say that he wanted to stake Robert and I against one another for his own amusement. What ever the case may be, Robert resigned from his career with the Green Dragoons and rode to Massachusetts to guard my family. I was quietly enraged by this decision. It did not bother me so much that he would receive pay from the crown to protect what I already protected and loved- what frustrated, nay, infuriated me the most was that my own stay was lengthened in the process. It would now be a year, rather than eight small months, until I could hold my wife and son in my arms. Robert, on the other hand, would see them every day.

His letters were sparse. Any contact that I made with my family would have to travel through a secondary address. I knew that Sylvia was writing to me just as ardently as ever, but the messages would arrive in bundles. One day, I received seven from her, each one had been penned four months prior. Our conversation, if you can call it that at all, was floundering into obscureness. What I did understand was that she was miserable there. She missed those fireside reveries with her violin, standing barefoot in the garden with Sebastian and merely strolling beneath the sun on a warm day. Above all, she missed me. Her words may have strained and grown thin in the wake of my sluggish replies. Over time, I know she felt as though she was speaking with herself instead of me- but she never fell short in those expressions of how dearly she missed having me nearby.

I shook off the news of Robert's engagement to Celeste. In their conditions, there was little hope for the grand-scale wedding that I knew she must have longed for. I might have felt sorrowful for them. In fact, I know that I did. It was John who wrote to me next. The letter passed through Banastre's hands and he read it before I had the opportunity to do so, myself. He summoned me to his tent. With solemnness, I think. I knew immediately that my family was faced with some misfortune and let me assure you, I never before had felt fear quite so deeply. Banastre folded the corners of the page, a nervous tick that I was not aware of. He watched me closely, I could tell that he was carefully kneading the words on his tongue before releasing them to my ears.

"Master Combs and Celeste Ballard eloped two months ago," said he, with no shortage of grimness, "they boarded a ship bound for England along with," he released a quick sigh and I could have sworn that I spotted a tear or two behind those dark and heedless eyes, "along with young Viola. My daughter, Viola. Remains of the vessel's hull washed ashore in Scotland. It is believed that it hit a squall and sunk somewhere north of Ireland. Any survivors would have… well, the water was very cold. Too cold. It all here in the Major's letter. In the wake of this tragedy, Major Andre and General Ballard have taken your wife and son to New Jersey to grieve. As of right now, they are safe. You have my permission to return home to them for however long you need, Captain." I was looking at the ground, unmoving as he spoke. "That is all, Captain Bordon. You may go."

"I am sorry," I murmured, stealing a new glance of his eyes. They seemed to have hardened with strength while I was looking away. "I am sorry, Colonel Tarleton."

"I have never needed your sympathy," Banastre thrust the piece of parchment in my hand with such force that it nearly ripped in two. "Now, leave me be. Before I change my mind."

I caved the second that I reached my tent. There is no shame in crying. I could tell that across the encampment, Banastre was doing the same. If not, with a bit more composure. I felt sorrow for Robert and Celeste, surely. There hasn't been a day that I haven't thought of them or grieved their loss. But it was for Viola that my tears fell. With the exception of our closeness, she was to Banastre as Sebastian was to me. There was no denying that she was his child. It must have destroyed him to be in her presence and to see their many similarities. Now, Sebastian had lived without his cousin for two whole months and he was still much too small to comprehend that he would never see her again. When I arrived, I inquired for him first and held my son with all my might. There was something different about him, a melancholy that I did not have the heart to parse. Viola's absence weighed on him along with those days in Massachusetts that had undoubtedly stolen fragments of his childhood away. But there was more. He had been without me, too and I could never give all those days back to him.

John was there, strangely separate from everyone's grief. I found solace in watching him. He was present but distant all at the same time, and although I wish it wasn't so, I had never been so captivated by him. As we sat around the fire, draining one bottle of wine after the other, I saw him speaking to Sebastian with his arm draped around his tiny shoulders. He slipped a new book in my son's lap, with shiny black binding and golden lettering across the cover. I strained my eyes to see what it was. I was already broken and weak from crying with Sylvia in her room. The identity of John's beautiful gift tore into my conscious with very little effort. I heard him whisper the plotline of _The Twelfth Night_ into my son's ear, of the twins called Viola and Sebastian who had been both separated and reunited following a shipwreck. As everyone disbursed at the end of the night, I stayed behind to thank John for what he had done.

"Will you walk with me?" I asked, leading him away from the Ballards, the butlers and the maids. Side by side, we moved into the coolness of the atrium where the General, Sylvia and I had shared our first cup of tea. The vines on the walls were bare, save for several rattling leaves that had been sheltered therein from the cold winter wind. "It may take some time for Sebastian to understand the significance of what you have given him. So, I would like to thank you on his behalf."

"I thought it might comfort him and give him hope." As he smiled, I watched the handsome dimple flicker in his right cheek. "There is always hope."

"It was a beautiful gift. A beautiful gift from a beautiful person." I touched his face, my hand quivered only momentarily and then, all at once, I became strangely calm. "Oh, John. You speak words of hope to me without knowledge of where my hopes truly bend. I am a man forsaken by words, a man of silence. I thrive within the silent world. I do not require words to kiss you right now and yet… there is hope, is there not?" My heart eased into a steady murmur. He did not recoil or look away with shyness. He watched me steadily, accepting my tactless confession. "I have fallen in love with you. There is no end in sight. I can only move forward and hope that someday, I will find who I was before. I am sorry." I stole an elongated glance at his lips. They were shapely and welcoming. As I touched him with my own, I found that they were just as soft and sweet as I had dreamt they might be. I gradually applied pressure to his mouth and prayed for some sign of reciprocity.

None came. None came, but he did not resist me. He remained still, his back remained straightened, even when I attempted to increase the proximity of our bodies. He was a soldier in that moment, proud and tall, a breaker against a rising tide. "I am sorry," I whispered. His eyes had not closed, and I caught a glance of their passive stare before kissing his lips a second time. Then, and only for a moment, I felt a deep caress. As he succumbed to me, those rough and chapped hands glided across the nape of my neck. This was his gift to me, several seconds of fulfillment. I knew then what it was like to have his love and it was enough to satisfy and lay those dreams to rest. A single, delicate swoon, a sound that I had never made in all my life and would never make again passed between us like a secret. His tongue grazed my own in their forbidden dance and then, we both retreated and recovered from our ephemeral journey. "I am sorry." For a while, those were the only words that I knew how to say.

"Boris," John whispered, still holding me close. "The heart is but a child, spinning fantasies from its misinterpretations. It is so innocent, so good, that it falls in love with scenarios that cannot be in this cruel world. It is a souvenir of heaven, our one unbroken thread that connects us to God. Believe me when I say that your love is not a sin or a burden to me. I see it, I treasure it and I return it to you tenfold. I love you. I love your courage, your purity and your goodness. You have held a place in my heart from the moment that we met. In another world, perhaps, I would be able to give you what you seek. I would give it to you whole heartedly and without question. All that I can give you now is the love of a friend. I pray that in time, that will be enough for you. And for me, as well." I was no longer ashamed to cry. There in his arms, I grieved for the death of my fantasy and he held onto me until all of my tears were spent. Before I returned to Sylvia that night, he drew me in one final time and kissed my brow. Then, we parted ways as two men, two soldiers, two friends.


	40. A Cloven Heart

What followed was a stretch of peaceful days. I should have known that they would be the calm before the storm. By Sylvia's request and against her father's wishes, I took her and Sebastian to the quiet house in New Jersey that I had called home for many years. There were cobwebs on the furniture, the garden was overgrown, but it was as I had left it. Quiet, simple and the furthest thing from a spectacle to any passerby. There were no signs of discovery from Thorne's men, no indication of break-ins of any variety. It was safe, and it was our own. I was delighted to watch my son stand at the base of my old oak tree and stare up into its bare limbs. He did so with the same wonderment that Sylvia had. Once, when I caught him in that spot on the lawn, I crept behind Sebastian, pulled him close and told him the story of how his mother tried to eat supper in that tree, had toppled from its branches and twisted her wrist on the evening that we first fell in love. He giggled. At the prospect of love, I wager, and I laughed a little bit, too. Overall, I believe that it was out of relief to know that he could still smile and hope after all that he had been through.

We spent a week together, just the three of us. Although it was not enough to make us forget our individual trials, we healed better in isolation than we ever could at the estate. How the General learned of my departure date, I cannot say. It was either through Banastre, John, or his own spectacular guesswork. He arrived without fail on my last night there, behaving as though he was merely "seeing me off", but Sylvia and I knew better. He would not rest until she agreed to returning to the confines of a safe holding, either the house in Massachusetts that John had prepared for them or one that was like it. He targeted Sebastian first, following John's far more graceful example of giving him a gift. This time, it was a sturdy butterfly net, the kind that sails on the high seas to the colonies, all the way from China. I felt as though I had been kicked across the face, listening to how he marketed a swamp-side safehouse, where Sebastian wouldn't have to wait until Spring to catch all of the dragonflies he pleased.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Sylvia barked, startling and silencing us all. "How lowly you look, Papa! Trying to buy out your own grandchild like some tick infested, back alley profiteer!"

Instead of cowering as I expected him to do, Sebastian glanced upwards with a look that was not unlike the one that he had given me beside the oak tree. His round, blue eyes glittered with amusement. I knew that Sylvia cursed, I expected he had heard a sour word or two from her during my time away, but something that she had said made the child positively giddy and I don't believe that my wife's insult, sly and clever as it was, could have been enough to garner such a reaction.

The General remained calm, Sylvia's glare, Sebastian's fit of laughter and my usual malaise didn't trouble him in the least. "Lowly, you say? Lowly? Here I am, looking out for your wellbeing because your pushover of a husband-"

"-He is no such thing!" Her face waxed crimson. I could list off an entire catalogue of terms that would have hurt me more, but Sylvia appeared as though her father had personally delivered my death sentence instead of a mild accusation that I could easily recover from in a matter of seconds. "Boris always acts in the best interest of his family. He listens to us, understands our desires and goes beyond merely being a provider. He is perfect!"

I looked down at the floor and choked back a laugh. Not so much at my wife's word choice, but at my silly son. Sylvia was surely onto something when she observed that he might be a genius. No child enjoys being in the middle of a fight and he was using hysterical laughter to reach an expediated resolve. The General was not so pleased. He ordered Sylvia to shut Sebastian up while he and I stepped outside to settle our disagreement "man to man". My case was strong. My desire to keep my family in a real home was easily understandable and furthermore, I was more than willing to allow the General to live there, too. That is, if he could meet me halfway and stop picking fights with his daughter. I had my points of debate all plotted out and ready to use, but they were quickly lost when he grabbed me by the collar and pinned me up against the side of the tree.

"Tell her to stop this," he hissed in my face, his grip was strong and intensifying by the second, "You are her _husband_. Grow a bloody backbone, Son! Tell her that she is not safe here or, God help me, I _will_ expose what you truly are to her."

"Sir?"

"I see your guilt. It is written across your face."

I tried my best to devise a hand signal for 'you are choking me' and he allowed several millimeters of slack. Once I was able to grant a thin stream of air to my lungs, my body realized that it was under more than a physical threat. He knew. He knew, and I panicked. "I don't understand. What guilt? Expose me how? My conscience is clear, General!"

He leaned closer. He knew that I was his captor, that the hook that he had cast into the depths of my soul was now deeply embedded in a secret. He named it. "Major Andre." I know that my coloring changed. Even the white sky and the bare ground shifted their hues. The cold, wintery temperature around us reached a boiling point. "My daughter has loved you since before she knew how to spell her own name. Those feelings have grown with her, they are all that she knows. It will destroy her to know of your recent change of heart-"

"-Respectfully, Sir. There was no change of heart. I love Sylvia. I am married to Sylvia. And it is with Sylvia that I shall remain until my final breath leaves my body."

"Will you ever come clean to her about that night in the atrium? Or will that be just another thing that you carry to the grave?"

I froze. John and I were alone. What I was after that night was complete isolation and no man alive would want to pass their time in an atrium in the heart of December. Not while there were fires to sit beside and bottomless glasses of port on the opposite side of the windows. "It was only a kiss, Sir."

"No. If it were, you would have nothing to worry about. Those were words of love that you spoke that night. Sylvia came to me many times with tears in her eyes, after that incident on the polo field. She knows you, Boris. She knows the workings of your mind better than you realize. You are not being heroic by allowing her to stay here without any protection."

"Well, then let us find protection for her!" I cried. "You are acting as though I am throwing my family to the wolves! But I am not! I am a better man than you take me for! Just because you overheard-" I could see through my tears that he was gesturing for me to lower my voice. I followed his order as best I could. "Just because you overheard my confession of love to Major Andre, that does not mean that I am looking to exchange the life that I have now for another. Sylvia and Sebastian were miserable in Massachusetts. They are not meant to be locked away from the rest of the world. I want them to live full lives, happy lives. This is the house that I was born in, it is where I was raised. Every memory that I hold dear is connected to this land. I would not share this house with anyone other than your daughter and our son. If you are looking for proof that I hold her above all else in this world, look no further. This is her home now. Call in all the guards you need, stick a sniper in every tree, build a fortress around the vicinity for all I care. This is my legacy. When Sylvia married me and took my name, she married this land, too. It is humble, it is not your house of many rooms with its gardens, fountains and badminton fields. But it is all that I have to give, and I give it to her, Sir. I give it all to her."

There was no evidence of persuasion in his eyes. He breathed a prideful snort through his nose and crossed his arms over his chest. I was relieved by his release but held my position against the tree for a moment longer. "I have an idea for the first meaningful memory that you can make with my daughter here, at your new _home_."

My eyes widened. "You told me that it would destroy her if she knew. I cannot simply confess to this and ride off for battle in the morning. General Ballard, I need your word that you will not reveal what you saw to my wife."

He muttered a familiar phrase and it hurt to hear him use my own words against me, "I am a better man than you take me for."

That night, I found little rest. Sylvia and I had our own ways of coping with the final hours that we spent together before I rode away. I would use this time to memorize her, to strip her bare and leave no space untouched. She would allow this and spin the sweetest metaphors, likening my every caress to a song. Now, in the place of that dear exploration of the spoken and tactile world, we simply collapsed, naked in each other's arms. She held me, so close that I expected us to melt into one another. I expressed my melancholy in a different way, by lazily brushing my hands across her back and watching how the shadows changed across her sleeping face as the night transitioned into day. The sky was barely illuminated by the rising sun when I softly rolled her from my chest to the cool, untouched bedsheets around us. I was fully captivated by how angelic, how trusting and innocent she appeared, sleeping with half of her face against my hand. Her eyelashes fluttered softly against my wrist and I guided her chin so that we were looking directly at one another.

"No," her sweet façade was instantly pained. "No." Those same long, dark lashes were quickly soiled with tears and I pushed them away with the blade of my finger. She was usually so strong on these mornings, but this time, her walls came tumbling to the ground. "Please don't leave me. Don't leave me here alone." I allowed her to cling to me, to cry until she found some semblance of relief. Then, I left her behind to dress myself and kiss Sebastian 'goodbye'. She was sitting at the foot of our bed, newly clothed in a fresh chemise when I went to hold her again. "Say something, Boris. Anything at all to make parting hurt less."

I bowed my head, deciding on silence instead of an answer. Then, it dawned on me. My emotions were running wild, I did not want to leave her. I wanted an escape just as badly as she. Without any assessment, I blurted out the only words that I could find. "Sylvia, I have loved another."

The corners of her eyes wrinkled, and she proceeded to kiss me, but paused as her mind began to process my words. "Why would you say that? Why would you make the last real conversation that we are going to have until eight long months are spent about Celeste? I already knew that you pursued her before me but… why, Boris?"

I breathed, trembling. My vision became distorted. My mind flooded over with panic and distress. "After our marriage vows. I betrayed you."

"You?" She stood upright and moved away from me, to the furthest corner from where I stood. I followed. "It cannot be. I trust you more than anyone in all of the world. No!" Sylvia turned her head from me and held her gaze out the window for a second or two before allowing our eyes to meet again. "Did you act on those feelings?" Her shock and inquisitiveness slowly reddened into frustration. It would not be long now before she boiled over with anger. I nodded. "How?"

"A kiss."

"A kiss?" She crossed her arms and nodded, her expression was very the ghost of General Ballard. "You kissed another woman?"

"I kissed John," I looked down at my feet. I knew that it would take several seconds for that to sink in. So, I took that time to find the courage to look her in the eye for the second half of my thought. "I am in love with John. But Sylvia, you must understand, that does not mean that I have ever stopped loving you."

"John? John Andre? You mean to tell me that you," through the anguish, I could see a golden dawning of realization upon her face, "you shielded him that night. When we were playing polo in the dark. Did you know them?" I did not respond. "How long have you known? When did this begin? I have a right to know!"

"It began when I first met him. I have always loved him. But I promise you that I will never act on that love again. For you. You are the love of my life. You are the one that I choose. It will never happen again."

"Oh, but it did happen!" Now, her nerves combusted. Now, she was angry and that anger was more than justified. "You are my husband! Does that mean nothing to you anymore?! What if it had been more than a kiss? What if he loved you, too? Would we be having a different conversation? Would you be leaving me right now? Will you-" her mind ventured into a darker place and I trailed behind her, quietly pondering what I could possibly say to bring her back. "Will you even return to me? Or is this home your final testament to what we had? Is this the end? I have no other life than the one that we forged through our love. It is all that I know and all that I have ever needed and now you are telling me that the heart that I have depended upon and loved so dearly has been cloven in two?" A cascade of tears that I was simply not strong enough to dry spilled from her eyes.

"Every promise that I have ever made to you still stands," I opened my arms to her and was relieved when she fell inside of them.

"I will not let go of what still belongs to me. I will hold onto what you still wish to give me with all of my strength. I should have known that your heart was far too mighty for me alone." Her words were made of stone, but I could tell that I had broken her heart beyond repair. As I stepped outside and into the cold, she followed without even covering her feet. "Hold fast, my one and only love" she muttered, she was so empty inside that the sound of her voice echoed in the hollow of her chest. "Come home to me."


	41. Tavington

Losing Viola ignited a change in Banastre, one that the other men could not see because they were not looking closely enough. He went for months without interacting with me, without looking at me, save for in dire moments of combat. As our lives merged with New York, I could feel this change in full-force. He was looking for a distraction, for someone to ridicule with his wit or to take on in a rowdy brawl in the streets. He drank more and thought less, the usual sting in his words flourished into absolute cruelty and I was idle for all of it. For nearly a year thereafter, I believed that he resented me and envied my ability to quietly drain a pint of ale and return to the barracks without confrontation. I would linger sometimes, after finishing my drink and walk behind him for several yards to see that he made it back without a scratch. For the longest time, I believed that the alcohol had dulled his cognition to a hum that covered my footsteps. Banastre knew that I followed him, and I was alarmed on the night that he turned around and sauntered towards me in that dark alley.

"What is this?" He held a straight face and I could tell that he was trying with all of his might to appear sober and aloof. "A sneak attack? Are you trying to do away with me, Captain?" As Banastre drew nearer, he lifted his hands over his chest. Although he did not bother to form them into fists, I believe it was a defensive gesture. Suddenly, he began to shake, and I did something then that surprises me to this very day, I embraced him. "You can never be too careful," he drew in several deep breaths, an attempt to collect himself and move on, but the paranoia that he had been concealing broke free. "We earn our wages, you and I, by running towards death. They were trying to escape from the war and they were so close. She was so close to her new life in England. Tell me, Friend, how can I possibly believe in a merciful God when His will is so cruel and random? How can men who were better fathers than I ever was, who loved their children, who held them and provided for them and put their needs before their own every single day… how can they endure the same loss that is eating me alive? I am asking you this because you are a father, too and because I know that my Viola loved your Sebastian. What would you do? Tell me what to do so that I might face another day in this terrible, frightening world."

I looked to the ground, the pools of late springtime rain held reflections of the starless sky. I never thought that I would be there again, in the same city, living in the same barracks where Banastre had thrown me into a trough of freezing water. Now, I was holding him and collecting his heavy teardrops on the breast of my coat. "You are asking the wrong man. You see, I have never been as strong as you are. Grieving does not make you weak, it is essential. I know that you feel as though there is no end in sight, but what you are doing now, by living day by day, _that_ is endurance. Your decision to talk to me instead of breaking a bottle over another officer's head tonight, that is admirable, too." I could hear the faintest laugh resounding inside of him. It was brief and quickly devoured by sorrow, but it was significant to me. That subtle laugh marked the beginning of my friendship with Banastre Tarleton and also, was a promise of the comfort that I, too, would come to seek and find in him.

There were disagreements, of course. He would terrorize our new recruits, just as he had done to me. I remember the day that his rival came because he rode with John. It was the evening, we had all disbursed for a casual night on the town, a visit to the theatre was in order. Banastre and I were spinning scandalously altered soliloquies at the stage door when John approached us with an adept young soldier. Adept, but marinated in pompousness and defiance. He sneered at the two of us before entering the building and starting a row over the establishment's most coveted balcony seat. John warned us that the "gentleman" was prone to sudden outbursts and had taken several swings at him since their first encounter. Banastre was intrigued and accepted this soldier, this Tavington character, as his next challenge. John told me that it was not unlike taming a wild animal, that unleashing my own fury would be the only way to calm the raging fire within him and I took heed.

That was not the only reason why I agreed to assist in his "taming". Not only was Tavington commanding and brash, he was also exceptionally observant. John and I chose to watch the play from our own private balcony which was immediately adjacent to the one that the new arrival had bartered for so aggressively. The theatre was dark, dark as the atrium. So few words had passed between the two of us since that night and suddenly, we were together in our own private corner of the world once more. I did not listen to the actors or watch their comically artificial movements. Instead, I gave my full attention to the sound of John's breath and watched as the top of our two legs purposefully bumped into one another in the low light.

"You look very handsome tonight," he confided in me. Nervously, shyly, like a child. I searched for a response and he seemed disappointed by my silence when none came. So, I moved my hand to the edge of my knee. The candlelight illuminated my fingertips and he saw that they were turned skyward, a platform, a stage, waiting to be graced by his touch. He abided immediately, closing his hand around my own. We moved them both beneath the seat, a secret connection that no one else had witnessed, except for Tavington. "He can go to hell," John muttered, seeing where my eyes had strayed. I loosened my grip but did not let go. The more that those lightly weathered, deeply callused fingers caressed my own, the further that I fell under their spell. "I need you to know that I cannot forget you. I could live a thousand lifetimes, love ten thousand souls and still, it is you I cannot replace. Instead of returning to the barracks tonight, stay the night with me. Just one night. That is all I ask."

I held onto my silence, though I would not have been alarmed in the slightest if the action on the stage halted and everyone in the house turned to hear the eruption in my chest. "There is nothing that I would not do for you," I said beneath my failing breath, "no sin that I would not commit, no stay in hell that I would not persevere. Why are you asking me this? Is it because you know that I will not deny you, despite the vows that I have made and the principles that I hold to?"

He turned away, still maintaining a tender grasp on my hand. As the evening progressed, those strokes grew in their indulgence until curtain call arrived and then, John broke free. He left the balcony, then the theatre without sparing me a passing glance and I avoided Tavington's mocking smile as best I could on the walk back to my solitary bed. It rained for most of the night and the warmth of summer approached on those whispering winds. The building haunted me, its walls stored memories of my desires for Sylvia's love. It was in that space that I penned my first letters to her and dreamt of what her touch might feel like in regions far beyond the palm of my hand. I should have stayed, but I decided against it and as I faced that driving rain, I prayed for forgiveness and redemption. God sees all. He did not intervene, the pathway to the flat was just as straight and uneventful as it always had been. I saw him moving in his bedroom from the street, the curtain was pulled back several inches. It was as though he had staged it that way, with a single candle glowing on his nightstand. His back was turned, then curved as he slipped the white shirt over his head, exposing the smooth flesh beneath.

I blushed, glancing at the windowpane as he stepped out of his trousers, but I did not deny my eyes the perfect curvature of his backside. He lingered there, in thought, perhaps and I admired the lean muscles that his legs were composed of. Then, to my surprise, he turned and made towards me. I was so overcome with shyness that his eyes captured my own immediately. Indeed, he had been hopeful that I would fall into this trap. He did not move, barely emoted. He simply granted me permission to behold him. I could feel my lips parting, my eyes softening as he surrendered. Those broad shoulders and sculpted chest were not what I was accustomed to kissing of finding solace within. Yet, I could learn to love his visually strong anatomy just as dearly as slender Sylvia's. Those same burning sparks that rose so highly in my chest the first time that I looked upon my wife returned. Only now, they were born when I followed that soft pathway of thin hairs to the unexplored shadowland between his thighs. I pondered how I might please him, how I might kiss and stroke his plentiful length into arousal.

My balance faltered, and I stepped back, quickly regaining his gaze. Amusement, perhaps even flattery entered his eyes and he ventured closer and closer to me until he was near enough to touch. Heaven knows, I would have if it wasn't for the barrier of glass. His modesty was protected by the rising of the windowsill, our faces were now level. He raised his hand and stroked the surface, only glass and raindrops and air were between us. I felt his shadow fall upon me, it was far more real than the wind that ruffled my coat or the rain that dampened my hair. I closed my eyes, accepting this phantom touch. There we stayed, our hands barely touching like two prisoners being held in separate cells. The storm cleared, exhaustion prevailed and I looked after him as he slept lightly with his bare arm against the glass. As the city sprung to life the next morning, he awoke with a weary and melancholy grin. I reached for him, just as I would have if he were my own to touch and hold. His eyes changed, shifted, into the warmest expression of adoration. Before, I had only heard his voice telling me that he loved me. Now, I could see that love. It was pure, it was good and it was real.


	42. Crime and Punishment

It was in the same summer of that year. Both Banastre and John arranged a small patrol as we slept, and we left for the outskirts of New Jersey at daybreak. The population of rebel camps had multiplied in those woods and incidents with civilians were on the rise. It was cause to worry, but my family was seated further West. Regardless, John sensed my apprehension and encouraged me as any friend might. Mid-day we dismounted and broke away from the party to comb through the reeds at the corner of a glassy, crescent-shaped lake. John lost his footing and slipped on the rocks but caught himself before he hit the ground. He shook off the incident and pressed on, but the further that we ventured into that lush riparian oasis, his stride descended into a hobble. I walked behind him for a few yards with my hand against his back before asking him to sit on a flat stone beneath the thin curtain of a willow. As he became situated, I knelt on the ground before him and unbuckled his boot.

"You've rolled your ankle," I said, trying to sound clinical. By avoiding his eyes, I thought that I might avoid the sexual tension between us, but that only intensified as I kneaded his narrow foot between my palms. "You are with the right man, Major. I have a special talent for rubbing out knots and strains. You will be as good as new in no time."

"I in no way doubt your capabilities." John smiled, his eyes were soft and heavy with love. His voice had lowered several octaves. It was balmy and smooth as summertime rain. "Go up about an inch," I followed his order without hesitation, "there. That is the spot. Right below the inner anklebone."

"The big, hard one?" My face grew warm, but I managed to look up at him and grin, to pretend that he was teaching me what an anklebone was. Yet, no new knowledge could enter my mind at this time. Only John. I wished to meditate on only John. The blueness of his eyes, the dimple in his cheek, the smell of that same liquor on his breath that I had once tasted in his kiss.

"Yes," he bit his lip, but lost hold on it as his smile widened. "Yes, my love. That is the one."

Slowly, I traded out my hands for my lips, planting a deep kiss in the location of his sore muscle before gliding my mouth across the flat surface of his foot. "I love the ground whereon you stand," I whispered rapturously, like a poet might do.

"That is from a song," he beamed, "a pretty song. One of my favorites. Of course, there is always Shakespeare."

"Shakespeare, my love?"

"Come," he invited me to rise and reached out, as if with the intention to help me to my feet. Instead, he pulled me close, kissing the corner of my wrist and nuzzling his cheek against the weathered inseam of my hand. "I'll follow thee and make a heaven of hell! To die upon the hand I love so well! Shakespeare. I believe he would approve of you and I." The passion in his eyes must have reflected perfectly in my own. "Let me kiss you." As I pulled away, denying his kiss, John simply grinned. "So noble. You are much too good for this world. Let our palms kiss, instead. Do you remember? Just as Romeo and Juliet's did? The holy palmer's kiss." He tugged gently on my arm before pressing our two left hands together, skyward, as though in mutual prayer. "Now our two hearts are one. If only for this moment. You do not wear a ring for Sylvia?"

"I was much too poor for such a token when we married," I whispered, guilt swelling inside of me for mentioning Sylvia while John had me captured in this moment.

"It is a little known fact that instead of the traditional 'ring' finger, this one here," with softness, he touched the tip of my left, middle finger, "has the strongest association to the heart. It is the longest on the hand and thus, our heart's furthest extension into the world." John looked to the ground, to where his bare foot had nested in a patch of moss and heaved a nervous sigh. "No, no. It is silly to think that you would. And yet, I must try." He twisted a tarnished, but beautiful ring of silver from his right thumb. From the indention that it left, I could tell that he had not removed it for many years. It fit on the assigned digit as though it had been made for me and I quietly admired the domed and ovular stone at its center. It was blue, the same color as the deepest points of the ocean and the darkest flecks in John's eyes. "This belonged to my father," said he, "he bought it from another man in his trade, back in his homeland of Switzerland. It has sailed across every sea on the globe and traveled through countless lands," his smiled genuinely, sweetly as he reminisced, "as a boy, I would look at it and wonder what languages it knew, what warnings and tidings of hope it would share with me if it could speak. I would look at it and feel small. Sometimes, lost. Sometimes, unsure of where I fit in and whether someone as simple and selfish as I had a place in such a tremendously vast expanse of creation."

"What do you feel now?" I inquired, silently reveling in the way that his breath touched my face.

"I feel as though… as though I have found my destination. Perhaps we solve a different puzzle with each lifetime. I look at you and I see a new beginning. But I also know that we cannot be more than what we are right now. We must live and die separately. In order to be together, truly together, we must part. I keep promising myself that… in a better world. Someday, my love, in a better world- I shall give myself to you and you shall give yourself to me. There will be no reservations and there will be no shame. Until then… will you carry this part of me with you?"

My spirit budged against the invisible restraints that I had built around myself. I closed my eyes tightly, trying to remember who I was and the life that I had on the other side of this intoxicating sanctuary that John and I were slowly creating. Now, I was the unresponsive one. I lingered on the outside of my body as he ravished my lips and burned a trail of kisses along my jawline and across my neck. "Yes, yes, I will." I whispered when his ear crossed paths with my mouth. "Let this be our secret union. A marriage between two hearts. I have nothing to give you in return, but-"

"-A vow," John pressed his forehead to my own. "There are more instances than you know of, Boris, where two people marry in secret. They need only say 'we are married' and it is so." He saw my reluctance and allowed me to retreat. "In a better world, then, I suppose."

I turned and walked away, following the shape of the lake to where we had halted our search. From behind me, John stepped back into his boot and practiced putting weight on his minor injury. He seemed to be faring well and even brushed my shoulder when he passed me on the trail. I reached for his hand and he accepted. Silently, we walked together beneath the stark summertime sun, unashamed and uncertain. When we heard the rhythm of hooves on the opposite side of the hill, we broke our connection but remained close, readying ourselves for either friend or foe.

"Step behind me," he ordered and when I did not, he grew cross, "step behind me! You are the one with a family. You are worth so much more than I."

His gallantry had no effect on me. I was just as ready as ever to shield him. "You are my family, too," I told him, preparing my initial warning shot, "we are married." John lowered his weapon and I did, too. Our mounting fear was not strong enough to surpass the love that we felt for one another. I honestly believed, after what he had told me, that we were about to die. "We are married," I declared again as his pistol fell into the tall grass.

"We are married," John's eyes glazed over, and he kissed me with all of his strength.

There was no gunfire, the many hooves that were splashing in the wetland separated into a casual disbursing of trots. Our witness was a lone rider, he cleared his throat and John and I parted just as quickly as we had united. "Captain Bordon," Banastre droned flatly, trying to appear unaffected by what he had seen. Beneath his arm was a collection of folded parchment, all bursting from an old leather casing. "Most of these drawings won't be of interest to you, but there is one. This one," he handed me what appeared to be the newest sketch in the collection. "Take a deep breath. Ground yourself before looking. I know that you will want to act rashly, but we must-"

"-Just give me the damned thing!" I tore the page from his grip. From where I stood, I could already see the outlines, the shape of my doorway, the highest point of the oak tree in comparison to my roof. "Thorne?" I asked. Nay, begged.

Banastre continued to look at me with the most vacant stare that he could muster. "Silas and Thorne. They have found your family."


	43. The Forsaken Ones

**I try not to do this too often, but it seemed necessary for this chapter. In all of my years of writing, I have never been so terrified, so challenged by a story outline. This chapter and the one that follows contain what I was the most frightened to write. What I am trying to accomplish in this story is both simple and painfully difficult. I am trying to take this character, this fabrication, this sweet, loving, gentle person and turn him into the Captain Bordon that you know. There are so many intricacies in Mr. Price's portrayal. While some argue that he plays the role of a villain straight, I know that there are others who see softness and contemplation, fear and bravery in those few collective minutes that he has on screen. That tiny look of satisfaction and approval on his face when Wilkins says, "Any man who stands against England deserves to die a traitor's death," comes from somewhere.**

 **The goal of this chapter, when all is said and done, is to give that expression a hypothetical root, a moment in his past when he was so deeply wounded by the rebels that he found retribution in killing those civilian families in South Carolina. My own heart was wounded while writing this chapter, I've shut down my laptop and walked away from it more times than I can count over the last couple of days. It was a task that took months to prepare for and I feel that I should prepare my readers before proceeding. There are countless trigger warnings in this chapter. There are mentions of rape and abuse. The violence is graphic and the prose is the nearest to grief that my own words have ever ventured. This is the saddest story that I have ever written, but I like to believe that it is honest, brave and that it does Captain Bordon justice.**

…

Some endings are sudden, painless and unforeseeable. When the trumpeting swan begins her intrepid voyage across the lake, white wings fanning both water and sky as she shapes her fragile neck into an arrow, her only thought is flight. She does not see the hunter in the shadows, she does not know that soon a second arrow will become aloft. Nor does she know that the arrow is intended for her until it strikes true. Is there beauty in both ventures? How can death be met with such grace? How can her final, acrobatic plummet be just as divine as every other moment of her existence? As death masquerades, it assumes other forms than the swan's final plummet once the arrow strikes her breast. I have seen men blown to pieces on the field and more grisly decapitations than I care to recall. I have heard the shattering bones of beasts as they are crushed alive by their yokes and watched fortresses crumble with men situated above and below the impending destruction. I have also witnessed gradual endings, the colorful asphyxiation of the trees, the sun's fire burning through a mound of virgin snow and I have found loveliness and poetry in the cruelty of nature.

As I look back on that fateful afternoon with distant eyes, I acknowledge the beauty of our messenger, even though I met its arrival with dread. It fell from the sky, blithely as a leaf spiraling towards its ultimate decay. It traveled to me from the nearby hillside, from the home that I shared with my wife and child. That sheet of music, although it was laboriously penned, although I could clearly see Sylvia's pain in those notes, the pleas that she had made for the husband who abandoned her, it was unaware of the task that it would fulfill. It was part of an opus and belonged elsewhere, lovingly stowed with the rest of my wife's masterpieces on the shelf beside our bed. I looked to John, he was the only man who agreed to follow me there. He saw my fear as I handled the priceless bit of parchment and called after me as I whipped my horse into a sprint. As we broke through the trees and into the barren farmland, we saw that the pathway was littered with Sylvia's music. I screamed her name, with more volume and power than I ever knew my voice possessed.

My property was lightly populated with men. Vagabonds, I wagered, by their attire. All of our possessions, our furnishings, blankets and clothes lay in ruin on the grass. Thoughtlessly, I began to fire, and they gathered. The ones without weapons were downed first by John and I. The others engaged immediately, shooting with aggression and proficiency. From behind the encroaching line of assailants, I saw two wooden chairs on the other side of my oak tree. They were the only remaining bits of furniture that were upright and undestroyed. I moved in, the risk of being shot from a closer range made little difference to me. Barefoot, gagged and bound, my wife and child stood on those chairs. Sebastian was trying to hide behind his mother, but the large noose around his neck gave him little slack. Silas was beside them, awaiting orders from his superior. I knew within an instant who that tall, bald and colorless demon was. Thorne barely had nod for Silas to act. He saw me and all at once knew that he could avenge the death of his son with the death of my own.

It was a violent gesture, a rough twist of the arm that would make any grown man cry out in pain. Sebastian did not cry, he merely fought to maintain closeness to Sylvia's side. She was weak and injured, older bruises and new abrasions covered her once flawless flesh. Her eyes were so vacant and weighed with sadness that there was no telling if she could even see me. Yet, she fought for her son. She was the valiant one that day. Her muffled pleas tore into me and I gave them shape. I begged for them to spare him, to tie me up in his place. This only encouraged Silas. He did not kick the chair, he jerked it away. All the world seemed to scream in pain, leaves tumbled from the branches to the earth and I dropped my weapon. I fell, synchronized with his shadow, instantly paralyzed. Despite the hatefulness, the cruelty of his unjust execution, my beautiful boy departed the earth with swiftness. The breaking of his neck was the loudest noise that I had ever heard. It was a greater assault on my heart than cannon fire, than the collective whirring of ammunition that stole away the lives of my comrades like a merciless thief.

His stillness and my silent grief were sharply contrasted by Sylvia. I believe that if she had more than a second to spare, she would have broken free and torn those men in two. They feared her, I know that they did. They were the feeble captors of a lioness, and their power was only present while she was caged. I tried to aim, I tried to save her, but I was numb with shock. As they robbed her of the surface below her feet, she fought. Her agile movements countered the purpose of the noose. Unlike the instantaneous death that snatched our child away, Sylvia condemned herself to the anguish of strangulation. Together, we convulsed. I, with cowardice and sorrow and she, with strength and her final will to live. I felt John pull me to my feet, heard the crack of his pistol as he shot Thorne to the ground. Sylvia's eyes cleared, her face paled and peace descended upon her. There was an exchange of gunfire between Silas and John, but I barely noticed it at all. Sylvia was looking directly at me, stunned, as though she had been touched by a wave of holy light, as though she was beholding the very face of God.

Despite the cloth that was sinking tightly into the corners of her mouth, I knew that she was smiling at me- smiling with relief that my face would be the final image that she would behold. Her lashes fluttered. Death wears a dark cloak for most, but not for my Sylvia. Those tidal irises of green slipped away, the whites of her eyes rose like two pale moons and were quickly shaded. Willfully, she closed her eyes. As her nerves, the glowing embers of all that she was flickered into nothingness, her elegant neck gave way and her golden head bowed. One shot later, John moved in to cut my darlings down as Silas ran, blood spewing from the artery in his left leg. I watched as John placed them, side by side on the grass. He treated them with dignity and gentleness, with love. Something in the limpness of their vulnerable bodies caused vengeance to spike my blood. I could see Silas fall beside the garden and crawl for a meter or two. The decision to pursue him was a reflex. I turned him over, shattering his breastbone with all of my weight. He gasped and I was unaffected by his pain, by the meek struggle of the dying man beneath me.

"Why?" I shook him, guiding his head to rest on a flat stepping stone. I needed this platform to strangle him, to break him. "Why?! If you were looking to avenge Barnabas, it should have been with my blood! I should be the one hanging from that tree."

"I'll have you know, you murderous swine, that all of these boys that you killed today left their own personal marks on your wife." His lungs rattled as he spoke. He was suffering. Dying. Yet, he could not leave go of his hatred for me- the man who had killed his son. "Those scratches on her back and shoulders- those are mine. The deep ones, anyway. We all fucked her. Every night for the last five weeks. We waited until we were sure that her father had excommunicated her. For her loyalty to you, no doubt. Then, we showed up and gave her the thrill of her life! That chubby little brat felt left out, of course. So, when he took his beatings without a fuss, we were generous enough to let him watch! Sometimes, she would pass out after several hours. Most nights, she begged for more so loudly that we had to hit the bitch over the head to shut her up. I'm sure you already know that's the only way to get her to take it from behind!"

I cupped my hands around his neck. The smell of the air and the way that I drew it in changed. I tasted metal. I tasted rage. "I am going to kill you," my voice was smooth and calm, I believe that allowing myself to watch him struggle for his next breath was soothing for me. "I am going to kill you!" I screamed, catching him off guard. The last look that he gave me before I commenced, before I struck his head against that stone until it split, was of pure terror. He died slowly, terribly. Even I, a man whose name and legacy was forged on that endless, open graveyard known as war, did not anticipate the lake of blood and brain matter that poured from his skull. It flooded my garden, staining the roots of the herbs, the tomatoes and bean plants that my family had depended upon for sustenance. There was not an inch of my home that those rebels had not raped. As the blood created its own channel in the dirt, I saw the silk net that my son had so treasured. I reached out and saved it from becoming soiled.

John remained alongside them both, he was kneeling and rocking himself so low into the grass that I could not tell if he was praying or crying. My name formed on his lips as he turned to face me, there might have been sound, but I could not hear over the humming in my ears. He was shaken, disturbed by what he had witnessed. Amidst the blur, the fog of disorientation in my mind, I first aimed to reunite Sebastian with his butterfly net. John had removed each noose, cast the ropes and gags aside. All that I had to do was mourn. My son's body was the closest to where I stood. It was no use placing the net beside him or somehow positioning it across his chest like an undertaker might do. I checked my hands for blood, most of it had collected on my feet. No such redness transferred to Sebastian's skin as I touched the thick, raw ring across his throat.

The rope had been large and unforgiving, much too large for a child. It burned a red and angry wound into his tiny neck. The sight of this injury enraged me, but it was somehow easier to behold than the vacancy of his sweet façade. He appeared to me as he always had. Even now, as the color drained from his face beneath the bright summer sky, even now, as the intricate veins in his eyelids darkened from their usual inconspicuously pink shade to violet, even now, as his tender and wordless mouth hung only partially agape, I saw that dear baby boy who was almost too shy and gentle to cry. A cool breeze approached, breathing life and animation into his soft hair. It was longer now than the last time that I had seen him, brownness was beginning to prevail over its red and golden hues. I swept its lengths from his forehead before lifting him into a desperate embrace. He was famished, I could feel every bone in his ribcage, every vertebra in his frail back.

I held him steady with his cold cheek pressed to my own and against my better judgement, I tried to rock the life back into him. With each unsuccessful sway, my chest began to tighten, and my airways clamped shut. The pain that had been so rapidly multiplying inside of me spread with a blazing and relentless hunger. It held my breath captive in its smoldering clutches until I allowed myself to cry, but those were no ordinary tears. Each sob and wail were drier and infinitely more painful on my body than those preceding. They multiplied, growing in volume and frequency. One by one, they robbed me of my dignity. My sanity. I could have gone mad inside of my grief. In fact, I expected to. Until a kind soul delivered me to death's door, I would remain there, draining every last ounce of life that I had within me through that relentless chain of piercing cries- the very language of bereavement.

"Your pistol, John," I begged, my voice resounded in fragments from within my stinging throat, "If you ever were a friend to me and if you love me as I love you, you will take your pistol and end me." John watched, holding the same position as before. His hand was clasped so firmly over his mouth that it was quivering. He was usually a man of composure but now, he was broken. "End me!" I knew that scream, it was the same one, the same tone that had made its debut before I killed Silas. The darkness in my mind, the rage in my voice terrified me- even more than those who it was directed to.

Obediently, John lifted his weapon, but he did not raise it high enough to take aim. "I cannot," he whispered, tears gathered and trickled from his eyes, "I will not. I am sorry."

"Take this pain away from me! Grant me passage from this nightmare before it stops my heart and devours me! I-" I rocked forward and collapsed over the child in my arms. It was as though the heavy contents of my heart had formed an anchor. The magnitude of grief pulled me towards the earth. There, I cried. Without restraint or inhibition. Although I knew that John was frightened of what might happen if he touched me, eventually, his selfless need to tend to me outweighed his fear. "Will you hold him for me?" I asked when I was finally strong enough to look to the place where Sylvia lay broken. "I cannot stand the sight of them on the ground." And it was so. John leaned against the oak tree with my boy cradled in his arms. He whispered to him as though to keep him company and much to my surprise, he swayed as I had done and pretended that he was merely rocking Sebastian into a peaceful slumber.

Sylvia was turned away from me. It was just as I had feared. What brutality Sebastian escaped, my Sylvia had received in full force. I knew without a doubt that she had begged them to batter her body in his place. Blood continued to seep through her tattered dress. It was a lovely shade of periwinkle once with flowers and ribbons of violet and pink. Now, those colors had faded and succumbed to countless rips and stains. Her neck, her cleavage and the exquisite terrain of her collarbone were marred with deep scratches and cuts. I shook as I rolled her limp form into my arms. Even now, with her hair loose and tangled, with her nails soiled and cracked, she was just as statuesque as ever. She was the very picture of strength. She was the most beautiful creature to ever have lived- and died.

"Even the phantom of death blushes in your presence," I told her, fighting for one last glance before my tears blinded me and stole my voice away, "such beauty. All that you were, every thought, every word, every step, every breath was beauty. You were destined for immortality. You shall never fade or die. Oh, Sylvia! My Sylvia! Sorrow does not come close to what I feel. 'Regret' is too small a word, too small a notion! I was so undeserving! So unworthy from the start and yet, you chose me. By choosing me, you were the sole architect of my life. You were my provider, my shelter, my very will to live! What if you had known that I would forsake you? What if you had known that while you praised the loyalty and goodness that you so firmly believed that I possessed," my voice snapped beneath the pressure of self-hatred and blame. I traced the circumference of her face with my fingertips, dolefully admiring the way in which God had sculped her, with all of the femininity and sweetness of a perfectly formed flower. "It was you. You were faultless. You were the one who was loyal and good until the very end. Forgive me. Forgive me. Forgive me!"

Her lips remained petulant. They clung to their usual pink hue. I supported her neck, as if she were a newborn and drew her in for a final kiss. "You were my angel," I meant to whisper those words to her, but they left my mouth as a cry as I touched the papery surface of her lips. I wept, creating a trail of deep kisses across her cheeks and brow. Once, when the pain was too much to bear, I shut my eyes and allowed myself to feel her closeness. Soon, very soon, I would have to let her go. I would have to find a place for her beside Sebastian and continue living while they slept peacefully beneath my feet. I did not want to bury them on my property. There was blood in that soil, unthinkable memories inside the walls of our once happy home and ghosts hiding in the canopy of leaves above us. I longed to give them an eternal residence that overlooked Sylvia's childhood home, the pathway that I walked as a parcel boy and the pond where the swans and dragonflies rested after hours of flight. This would mean arriving at the General's door with news that I was not strong enough to bear. I turned to John, prepared to speak and felt a heavenly string of breath move across my face, followed by a whisper that was both gentle and strong. "Sweetheart," Sylvia's eyelids creased in an infinitesimal blink as she drew in a breath. It was shallow, but a breath, nonetheless. "There is nothing to forgive."


	44. The Departure

At first, I thought it both strange and cruel that Sylvia was placed in the spare room of the estate. It was drafty, dusty and an impractical place for anyone to spend their final days. Or for recovery. I still believed, despite all that I had been told, that those shallow breaths would deepen as she slept, and that she would speak and rise again. I would have made the space livable for her, I would have thrown the blankets off of the unused furniture and rearranged it all to look like home. I would have dusted, swept and sent for a drapery to hang over the window. I would have, but I could not be moved from her side. Her father visited her bedside once, along with her sisters. Everyone there treated the room as though it were a grave and their eyes passed me by like a pretty bouquet or laurel that was left to wilt beneath the sun and wash away with the rain. John would step in several times a day to stand beside me in silence as we awaited the inevitable. I asked him to help me feed her, through a narrow chute, the way that a wounded man might be fed. He did so without objection, but Sylvia was not strong enough for it to make a difference. She was so abandoned, so forgotten by family and help alike, that I was the one to clean her wounds and dress her in fresh bedclothes.

John provided a breaker for my rage when I saw how they had destroyed her. No more were those milk white thighs, those humble breasts who knew only the brush of my lips and the hidden language of my fingerprints. The rare and golden crypt whose sacred chambers I knew, not only as my sanctuary, but as my country, was now bloodied and red from overuse. By violating her, by dishonoring the bond that we shared, they passed their influence onto me and sewed the seeds of evil in my heart. Someday soon, they would take root and there would be no revival, no turning back. On the first day, I asked John to go to the garden and to bring me back a single white rose with the thorns removed from its stem. He returned with what I required and after breathing in the flower's sweet fragrance, I laid it upon Sylvia's chest and watched as it was set in motion by her faint breaths.

"This shall be my way of counting the days that I spend in her sweet presence," said I, "a new rose each morning. We can collect the old ones in a vase and keep them nearby. So, if she awakens, she will know that there was someone in this bitter, lonesome world who held out hope. Should she never have the chance to see them, I will bind them together with a white ribbon and lay them against her breast before bearing her away to her grave-" my tongue weakened and turned to dust, choking me along with my tears. Sweet John moved in and balanced my withered form against his, shushing me softly. I was still trying to purge my memory of the night before, when an old, grey gentleman in black came into the room without warning to collect her height. He had two separate measurements when he left, one for Sebastian's coffin and the other for Sylvia's.

As the quiet morning made way for an afternoon that was all the more empty and silent, John was called away from me. I watched the sunlight fall across my beautiful Sylvia. It warmed her flesh and even brought back a hint of coloring to her cheeks. Shadows would pass over her occasionally and with them, came reminders of how near we were to the end. "We are broken, my darling. Our life has been broken, but all is not lost. Please. I beg you. I beg you with all that I am. You chose me once. Choose me again. Choose me again, if only for a moment so that I might find solace in your light. Fill my ears with your words of wisdom and grace. Hold my hand and guide me through my darkest night. I cannot endure this loss without you, I cannot bury our son without your console. Come back to me. Come back to me and tell me what to do and how to live. I am lost without you, Sylvia. I am so, so lost and so afraid!"

She moved, just a fraction of an inch. It was painful for her to do so, I could see it in her face. But I knew that she had heard me and was fighting to return, even though the simplest gesture felt to Sylvia as if she were lifting ten times her body's weight. Her head pressed into the pillow and slowly tilted back. I could see sparks of activity across her eyelids, ripples, just as they had appeared when she defied death in my arms the other day. Faint tremors ignited in her bones. I thought, perhaps, this was the miracle that I had prayed for. I encouraged her, calling out her name with all of my might. She was light as a feather, so easy to cradle, so easy to hold. This was the battle that I had prepared her for and I knew that she would be victorious. But those echoes of movement became shivers. She trembled for several minutes and I rocked her, wondering if she was simply cold.

Perspiration appeared and glistened prettily across her forehead. I wiped it clean, pleading to her, watching those curved, expressive eyelashes. They parted. Her eyes were so distant, lovely as a bright star that can barely shine through a passing cloud. Eagerly, I took her hand and held it in my own. I might have smiled. She might have smiled, too. Our connection was broken when the convulsions began. Her eyes rolled into the back of her head as she was carried out to sea. It was a current that I knew I could not swim against. She seized violently and I kept her close, close enough to know that on the inside, she was panicking just as badly as I. Her dance with death was a silent plight, all that I could hear was an occasional gasp for air and an elongated release towards the end. It sounded so like closure, so like a final wisp of breath. As she relaxed, her head turned and tenderly, trustingly, it rested against my beating heart. I cried out in defiance, not knowing until her next intake of air that our hands were still tightly clasped. She was still with me, clutching to me as I held her at the verge of her fate. Another shadow found its way to her sleeping vigil, a swan was sailing through the sky. It touched down on the pond and I remembered why Sylvia had been condemned to this space. This was her favorite room as a child because there no better view in the house of the swans or the trail that I walked with my parcels.

"Look who has come to visit you," I said quietly, walking closer to the window so she could look out if she chose to. "A pretty swan. A pretty swan, just like you." To my surprise, she blinked and looked through the glass. "It flew all this way to look in your window and to wish its sister well."

"Home?" Sylvia looked to me, still distant, but near enough for some comprehension. "You brought me home. Thank you."

"Sylvia, I love you." I held her tighter, fearing that at any moment, she would fall into another seizure and not be so fortunate to escape it with her life a second time. "I need you to hear that I love you. I need you to know." As her breaths slowed, she faded into another spell of deathlike slumber. I kept her in my arms, only returning to the bed when I was no longer strong enough to stand. I cursed myself for what I had done. It was my own selfishness and fear, my loud and insensitive words that caused her seizure. John entered the room some time later and I looked to him, unsure of what to feel. Having him there relieved me, there was no situation, no circumstances under which I would dismiss him. But these few, precious hours belonged to Sylvia and I. I owed her silence and calm now. "She is so strong. She is fading away and yet, her strength fills me with such hope. Tell me that there is hope."

John looked to the ground, sharing some secret remorse with the strands of light on the polished floor. "He is ready for you." When I shook my head, John drew nearer. He looked at me with patience, but also with expectance. "Boris. You must go to your son."

"What? And walk beside General Ballard? And stand beside him as the boy whose death he stakes on me is laid in the ground?! Sylvia needs me."

"The General will be here shortly," he bowed his head a second time. "Last night, you said that nothing would help Sylvia so much as to be with her father for a while. He knew that you would need me by your side today. So, he is taking this time to say farewell to his grandson."

"John," I hid slightly behind the soft head of the sleeping woman in my arms, "He was just a child. He was my baby boy. I am not strong enough for this."

"Nobody ever is. But strength is not required today. Only love. I have never encountered a soul who loves so deeply as you. Come with me. Not out of fear or obligation, but because you love your son."

I moved to the side of the bed, still afraid to let Sylvia go. As I granted her a parting embrace, General Ballard's footfalls resounded in the hallway. Dismissively, he brushed past John. In one hand, he held a square envelope and in the other, a loaded pistol. He aimed it at my chest and I was too distraught to feel any fear. "I need you to say 'farewell' to Sylvia. Now!"

As he dropped the letter at my feet, John startled. I could see him jump in my periphery. "General Ballard, Sir. You are suffering a tremendous loss. We all are suffering together. Banishing Boris from your home will solve nothing!"

"Suffering?" The General changed the direction of his aim. His voice was low at first, his cheeks were only slightly pigmented, but they darkened alongside his escalating anger. "I have spent my night and morning digging two graves and preparing an infant, an _infant_! For burial. In less than one year's time, I have lost a child and two grandchildren and now there is a coffin and a dress awaiting my youngest daughter two rooms over. That little boy was tortured, he was brutalized and left unfed for weeks. All of this happened while his father, the man who was tasked by God Almighty to be his provider, was off, leaning Major Andre over a desk in some swanky New York flat. I am furious, I am tired, and I want to sit here and hold my child before it is too late. I am prepared for anything. If I must spend my evening watching as your blood is mopped from my floor, so be it. But I-"

"I will leave," I told him, feeling the tiniest change in Sylvia's breath against my neck. Something inside of me knew that she was nearing another episode. "Let us all be quiet now. I will go and bury my son and not stay for a minute longer, if that is what you wish. But please, please, if I am to leave you here with Sylvia, you must know what she is going through. Sylvia was convulsing earlier, Sir. When they hung her-" the very thought beckoned tears to my sore eyes, "when they hung her and her neck did not break, the rope prevented her from breathing. I could be wrong, I am no physician, but she went a long while without any passage of oxygen to her brain. I know my Sylvia. You are her father. You know her, too. She is fighting to survive right now. She will never stop fighting and I will never stop praying for her to make it through, even after I walk through your gate for the last time. I fear that if she awakens, she will not be the same."

"What are you saying?"

I glanced at her. She was shaking again and craning her neck against my arm at a peculiar angle. Indeed, the Sylvia that I had known and loved slipped through my hands in the hours that we had spent in that room. Her genius, her grace and the sweet love that she harbored for me since girlhood were now living memories across the pages of her music. "Should she return home from this battle, my one request is that you reflect that same valiance with your love. Be kind to her, be gentle with her always. If she asks to hear of the life that she knew before, or if she sees me in a dream, spare her the pain of my abandonment and of Sebastian's loss." I drew her in, retreating from the eyes that were watching us and shared with her our last farewell before laying my Sylvia in her father's arms. "Our souls are bound. From the beginning of time, we have been one. We will endure this war. The sun could fall from the heavens, the earth could crumble beneath our feet and whether together or apart, our bodies could be broken to pieces and we would persevere. By choosing me, I have known joy. You are my joy." Lightly, I touched my forehead to her brow. "I love you. I love you above all else. I honor you in the highest."

John swept the envelope from the floor, handing it to me once we were in the seclusion of the hallway. I looked back only once. General Ballard was cradling her sweetly and her head was on his shoulder. From behind, it appeared as though they were sharing the spectacle of the swans on the pond. That was how I decided to remember them, together and at peace. We neared our destination and the tranquility of that scene left me. I looked at the envelope. The penmanship was hers. It simply read, "The Last Will and Testament of Sylvia Angelica Bordon", followed by the address and the number of a safe in New York. My fingers pressed into the hard outline of a key. I knew what was waiting for me there. The holding would be extravagant and large, the grandest safe in the bank, no doubt. I would find no money there, only rows upon rows and stacks upon stacks of her unpublished opuses. I felt humble and unworthy, but also, loved and comforted to know that there was a part of her that would always live on. I kissed the graceful script, imagining her hands as she wrote it and tucked the envelope against my heart.

There were curtains over the windows in the nursery. Sebastian and Viola's playthings had been tucked away and the both the bassinet and crib that they used to fill were pushed to the side. As we walked by, I saw one of his favorite blankets hanging and considered bringing it along, but continued on my way without a sound. It was one room over, in Sylvia's childhood bedroom that I found my son. Sometimes, while passing through town, I would see the carpenter building coffins for children, but never before had I stood in such close proximity to one so small. It had been placed on the foot of a large canopy bed. Sylvia's was propped upright by the window, ready to receive her along with a familiar dress- the one that she was wearing on the night that we shared our first dance. Sebastian was not alone. Banastre must have arrived some time in the night. He walked towards me, still uncertain of how to look at John and I.

"When you are ready, Captain," he said, showing little emotion, "we will be in the hallway."

I hesitated. From where I stood, I could see his tiny nose and his two eyes, closed in eternal sleep. "John. It is dark in the ground. It is cold and lonely. Will you go to the nursery for me and collect his blanket? And perhaps his favorite butterfly net?" As Banastre left, John reached for my hand, squeezing it for several counts before nodding and leaving go. I approached the bed, concentrating on the glow of a candle across the room. Blindly, I lowered my palm to lay across Sebastian's chest. Instead, it fell on his two clasped hands. They were so cold. They were much too sweet and perfect for decay. I collected myself and took him in, my alabaster angel asleep on a plank of wood. He was given a lace cravat, a handsome brown coat, trousers and buckled shoes that he would normally wear for two minutes only to return with them covered in filth and holes. The General had displayed him like a bit of art or an expensive doll in a toyshop, but that was not who Sebastian was. I wiped the white dusting of powder from his hands and lifted him from that terrible box. Together, we left the grimness behind.

"Let us walk by the lake on our way to the hill," I told John and Banastre as I passed them by. "I want him to hear the singing frogs and chirping crickets, I want him to feel the warmth of the sun and the coolness of the breeze one last time." Perhaps it was selfish, a means of compensation for all of the time that I had lost while I was away. I did not know Sebastian as well as Sylvia, but I did know that on nights when he was restless, she would open the windows and let the sounds of nature lull him to sleep. From behind us, John and Banastre bore their light load. I lingered with my son at the water's edge. Some might say that I took too long, but no afternoon with Sebastian was long enough. They gave up their waiting and headed onward to the grave. My tears only fell when I was not speaking to him, so I counted aloud each croaking toad and stealthy water strider. I whispered silly narrations into his ear about the stalwart beetle's pursuit of the wealthy ladybug on the hilltop and pondered from whom the praying mantis prayed. Had the General seen us, he would have ended our time together but from below, I saw only his back. He appeared to be whispering something over Sylvia. It might have been a prayer, it might have been a conversation similar to the one that I was sharing with my boy.

Eventually, the world grew silent and the pain returned to my heart. I knew that it was time to let him go. Slowly, I carried him, humming the only lullaby that I knew. The Ballards had mourned in their own way, with formalities, candles and pretty attire. As I kissed him, the black ribbon that had been tied into his russet waves blew away. The smells of the pond remained in his hair, our final afternoon together was a part of him now. I had given it to him just as I had given him the color of his eyes, the features of his face and his sense of quiet docility. I wrapped him in the soft blanket, still humming and rocking him in Sylvia's fashion. His coffin was nothing more than a crib to us and before I laid him down, I whispered, "Sleep now, my sweet boy. Your mother is on her way."


	45. A Constant Companion (Bonus Chapter)

**A/N: Another tiny "stand alone" bonus chapter. My updates are going to slow down a little. Come Monday I will be teaching AND going to school simultaneously, so it's likely that I will condense some larger thoughts into smaller blocks of text like you see here. Hopefully, that's okay. I kind of like writing these, but can never really tell what my readers are thinking or what your preferences are! =-)**

By day, I would violently mistreat my subordinates and by night, John would be the one to silence my fits of rage. I turned to inebriation and during those rare hours of sobriety, I was as lost as a newly blinded and orphaned babe, ever searching for a breast to cling to. The shadows of the night, the fiddlers, the bending prostitutes and the fighters in the street seared into my eyelids. I traded my old, sweet memories for those sickening displays. John would bring me home, whether he supported my swaying, staggering form against his shoulder or dragged me by my boots, I could not say. Often, I would find him beside me, touching a cool cloth to my parched lips. I saw his love for me on those mornings and would ask him the same question every time I eased back into the land of the living, "Why?" Sometimes, that word appeared as a whisper, other times, as a terrible yell. More often than not, it simply crashed ashore and was concealed within a mist of fog and tears. He told a story then and I knew by way of his own surfacing pain that it was true.

"I had a brother once," he would say, "a younger brother of my very own. There was not a day in my childhood that his sweet laughter and playful antics did not fill. Whether it was through my prayers that God would give me a sibling so that I would not have to be so alone, the fleeting years that we spent together or all the decades that I spent in mourning after he was taken away, he was my one and only constant. Henry was his name. A princely name, I always thought. Kingly, even. But when we were together, I called him 'my little prince'. We kept to the city most days, but our parents also had connections in the country. The homes that we visited there were nothing like the tiny farmhouses of New Jersey that you are used to. No, they were more like," the first time that he told this story, he said the name without thinking and had to apologize for equating those residences to the Ballard Estate. My response was not exactly dreadful, not tearful enough for him to stop but inside, I was screaming, and John could hear. Yes, he knew nearly every word that my silence held captive.

He would then speak of how he and young Henry would land in great trouble with the noisy and destructive games that they would play. The hosts would banish them to the outdoors as a result. "It was in Warwickshire," his voice would soften, his eyes would fall and on mornings when I was thoughtful enough to do so, I would hold his hand in mine. "It was in Warwickshire where we decided against our usual routine of playing pirates, which was a rowdy enough game to begin with. There were stables nearby and a corral where a zealous buckskin yearling was tied to a pole. The beast was barely tame, perhaps that is why he was so easy to steal. We flew across the countryside on his unsaddled back. It was the nearest sensation to freedom that either of us had known. There were no towns, no villages for miles and if there were any marked pathways nearby, they were grown over and discernable only by local eyes. Our father gave us formal teachings, credos only valued by aristocracy. Thank heavens I was also a reader of adventure stories and knew that traveling abreast a river would deliver us back to society.

We paused at last upon discovering a forest stream. Henry instantaneously crouched by the bank and started to make tiny boats out of leaves and twigs to race in those cool, clear waters. He invited me to play, too, but the horse took off and I ran after him. Like a fool, I ran after him. We could have lied. Nobody had witnessed our crime. The horse was not required to find our way home and yet, my own poor judgement and miscalculation stole me away from my brother's side. As I ran in one direction, Henry ran in the other, chasing the current that carried his little boats. To the hunter, he was nothing more than a small blur of movement, an innocent creature crouching low at the stream before taking off. It took no more than a single shot. I changed my direction and ran with all of my might, arriving in time to catch a tall man in brown with a rifle at his side, abandoning my little prince.

Whether or not the hunter would have stayed if he had simply wounded Henry, I cannot say. As it was, he…" John would always hesitate here, too. He would touch the apple of his right cheek, recalling the exact space where the bullet had entered his brother's skull. "Even after all these years, it destroys me to know that Henry saw his fate arriving. He must have heard a twig snap and turned. How did that man feel, I wonder, when he learned that he shot a child in the face? For five miles, I carried him. I felt the last bit of warmth leave his body, I watched his wound change from red to black. It hardened into the shape of a curved hill and a rising sun. I always thought that was my omen, that the devil himself had decided upon my punishment. For it was always in the mornings, when I was coming out of a dream that my grief would hit me the strongest. As for you, my darling, I watch you while you are dreaming. It has become my favorite sight to behold because, if only for a while, you are in a place where you cannot be harmed. If I could, I would spend all of my strength to make the world a better place for you. I would make it so you would never feel such pain again. I would, but I am small and insignificant. I am only one man. What I can do is be here when you awaken. No matter who the drink turns you into, no matter what you say to me on the way home from the tavern or how angry you are the night before, I shall be here to see you through these painful hours."


	46. The End of an Era

There is no telling the duration of the mighty storm that descended upon my soul. My words and thoughts were lost to the drink. Unidentifiable, they wove themselves into the dark tapestry that covered John and I each night. I have no recollection of submission or consent. All that I know for certain is that I surrendered to him once at my lowest and it became routine as our weeks together faded into months. It was nothing like the courtship, the lovemaking that I gave to Sylvia in my younger days. Those sweet hours were ones of discovery, of traipsing through the starlit night until we found our way to heaven. With John, there might have been blips of ecstasy, but those were his alone to encounter. Numb and unclothed, I would meditate on the candlestick across the room. The teardrop-shaped flame was the sole witness to our congress. It would tremble and quake on its wick as I leaned my back against the wall and waited to find my escape, my solace upon that warm wall at the back of John's throat. When we were too sore from the day's march to stand, I would transfer my wordless and secret shame to the candlestick from bed.

His rhythm was artful, yes, but he was a different composer, entirely. Like Sylvia, he would pine over the constellations of freckles across my body, but I could scarcely feel his fingertips as he traced them. Unlike her, his favorite canvas was my back. Unlike her, our eyes rarely met when we were making love. I believe he sensed my solitude. Although he was a man, John found no glory in leaving me to fend for myself. He was a sensitive lover. Sometimes, he would change the context halfway through his solitary quest, so I could watch him from above. Sometimes, that simulation of traditional intercourse was enough to ignite a faint spark inside of me. There was one night in particular when I found myself on a strange voyage across his eyes, one that ultimately caused the spell between us to break. I was half-asleep, drifting into uncharted waters as his waves of love rolled steadily into my hips. He moaned gently, caressing my cheek with his one free hand. Those chapped fingers were on the shoreline of my lips when all at once, I became immediately aware, utterly awake.

"No more." My demand was simple the first time, the second, it was angry and harsh. "No more, John. I cannot live here anymore."

Startled by my outburst, he exited the bed and stood beside me, waiting for my next move. He appeared wounded and in his complete nakedness, he was by far the most vulnerable man that I had ever seen. "Where will you go, then, if not here? Back to the barracks?"

I cared for John. Even then, as the redness of anger clouded my scope, I loved him. There was a dark impulse within me to strike him across the face, to storm out and never look at him again. But he was not the only one to blame. It was the sin between us that had angered God and sent Thorne's rebels to my door. "She is still alive. I can feel it in my heart's soul."

His head turned to the black ashes in our fireplace's pit. The scorched pieces of the letter that General Ballard had sent eleven months prior, informing me of Sylvia's peaceful departure from the world had come to dust in many evening fires since then. I believed it then. It seemed so plausible that she would pass away in the fashion that her father had noted, no more than an hour after I left the estate for the last time. She had asked him to carry her to the window, so she could see the path that I once tread upon with my stacks of parcels and, with a tear in her eye and a whisper of my name on her lips, became a cold, limp shell of the vibrant angel who used to await my arrival in that hallowed space. Her final thought had been of me and her father swallowed his pride just long enough to scribble that note into his letter. I believed. Oh, did I believe. Because I could picture it so clearly, her unsurmountable brilliance, her fearsome spirit and the endless devotion that she carried for her parcel boy all channeled into that last wisp of breath and gliding skyward to heaven like a swan in flight. It was a pretty death, a soft closure to a beautiful life. Despite my grief, I held fast to a fragment of hope that he had lied and that she had endured- as was her way.

"I shall collect our coats," John said, diligently as he started to clothe himself. "The General has granted you permission to visit the grave. Perhaps if you see it for yourself, then you will find the closure that you so desperately require!"

"You do not comprehend. I did not expect you to. But I will not ride with you. I will not live with you or lay with you. No more. I am leaving, John. I am leaving all of this behind me. Wallowing here in the darkness, while she is out there, somewhere, pouring out a stream of silver light so that I might follow, leaving a trail of messages in her music for me to find… I… I know that she is not in the ground or in the estate. The General must have sent her somewhere. England, perhaps. Or Vienna where she always longed to go. I am coming out of my grief, I am born again through my confidence that she-"

"Boris," he sat beside me and for the first time since the beginning of our affair, I cowered and reached for my house coat, frightened and ashamed to be unclothed in his presence. "It is a fantasy. She is gone. Your wife is gone. She is with Sebastian in heaven and you, you are here on earth with me. I know that I will never replace her. That is not my intention," his lips touched mine, not kissing, merely levitating, flesh-barely-upon-flesh. "I only wish to take care of you. To love you until my dying day and I shall. I am your spaniel, my darling." Heavily, I pulled away. My heart which had felt so little recently, began to throb with sorrow. "Can't you see, Boris Bordon? Can't you see that I have always wanted you for my very own?"

"Farewell, John."

He walked behind me and even shielded his eyes until every button on my breeches were fastened. I did not kiss him or hold him in my arms. I looked on for several seconds as he wilted on the edge of our bed. The shadow from his arm as he caressed his own brow concealed any expression that his face might have worn. But I knew that he was crying. With every wounded sob, the hairline fracture in his heart grew larger until at last, his very spirit shattered and fell across the floor in the form of heavy tears. I left the humid air of our shared home. It was a scent that haunted me as I breathed the cool breezes of the night. I wondered how long my hair and clothes had been set to absorb that sweet tang of our shared sweat. I wondered how many mornings we had reported for duty or walked through the offices, still smelling of one another and the rare flower of forbidden sex. Lost and ashamed, I followed the road to where it forked and turned towards the city's center. There, I would find a building whose address I knew by heart. The thick key had lived in the pocket of my coat so long that it had an indention, a custom domicile of its own making.

There were lights on in the bank. The nine o'clock hour was drawing nigh. Usually, John would revel in my company after draining the last of our wine from supper until he fell asleep against my chest around midnight. I was happy that I left when I had and the guard did not deny me access when I told him of the vault that I sought. Beneath those shadowy archways, I walked, guided only by my intuition. The larger the legacy, the more elegant the corridors became. Two voices, male, speaking the dialect of the elite filled the empty pocket where the Ballards' vaults were kept. I found it especially peculiar that the door bearing the General's name was propped wide open. Golden light from the inside splashed over the marble walkway. I ducked behind a pillar, hardly knowing why and watched as a third man fumbled around the corner. He was a low-ranking British soldier, carrying a heavy load. As he stepped into the lighted space, I saw that it was a wooden door that he was placing in the vault. I recognized it immediately. It was the front door from the estate, with beautiful engravings of flying swans and bowing reeds.

"Fine work, Gentlemen!" The richer of the voices that now numbered three sung from inside. "This marks the end of an era!"

"Indeed!" Chimed the other. I could have sworn I heard the fizzing of champagne and the clinking of glasses. "It is a shame, though. The man of the house hangs himself and all of his daughters race to the harbor!"

"All the pretty swans have flown away. Save for one, of course. She is a fine woman, my Lord. Please accept my belated congratulations on your marriage to Miss Ballard. Which one is she again? Cynthia? Selene? I could never keep them all straight!"

"Fine, yes," the man who I assumed merely by the authoritativeness of his speech to be their commander, said with modesty. His was not a low voice per say, hardly baritone, but there was a faint musicality to it. Had Sylvia been there, she might have described it as 'bassoon-like' and crisp. I listened carefully, trying to identify which of the Ballard girls had remained behind while the others fled to their homeland. "Not nearly as fine as my poor, late Jemima, but a silly young lady is not at all unlike a pup! Remember that, Gentlemen! It is among the countless duties of a man to take a wayward girl and train her to be loyal and obedient. That and I'm sure you won't mind my saying in confidence that you can teach her a few new _tricks_ along the way!" They chuckled and fumbled around the room. I could hear coinage being counted and fractioned into what I assumed to be a velvet pouch. "O'Hara, where are your manners? Nicholas has earned his share in gold over the last few months, moving all of those excess furnishings from Ballard's horrific New Jersey _shack_ to here. All that you have done since you came ashore is stand to the side and push back your cuticles! Excuse me." The man's broad shadow spread from the doorway and across the adjacent wall. His back was turned as he sauntered into the hallway, raising a glass of sparkling liquid to his mouth. This was General Ballard's successor, the grandfatherly groom to one of Sylvia's sisters. I looked on as he searched the contents of an ornate, knotted bag and pulled out a key. "Nicholas, bring those three hat boxes. The pretty ones. Oh, and the old violin case, too. Those belonged to his youngest."

As the room that contained the last of Sylvia's worldly possessions was opened, I smelled the familiar fragrance of parchment and ink. The hat boxes were vaguely familiar. I had carried them. In a time so far away that it seemed now to be no more than a distant dream. Unceremoniously, they were thudded against the floor. The violin case hung from Nicholas' arm like it was just another trivial container. For me, it was as painful to look upon as her coffin and the dress that had been selected for her burial. If Sylvia was alive, she would not be parted with her instrument. I fell to my knees, unseen, a weeping phantom in the woodwork. Quietly, I cursed myself for choosing this night to visit the vaults. Not only was Sylvia's death more apparent to me than ever before, but the estate, her childhood home and the ground where my wife and child's bones lay were in the possession of a new patriarch.

They finished their champagne and in the shadows, I watched them leave. The hall fell silent once more. It felt like a graveyard, a crypt and I turned the key and handle with all of the somberness of a man visiting his beloved's grave. Never, throughout the stretch of solemn months since my wife's implied death had I believed myself to be a widower. Now, I was. I re-lit the warm wicks of a rusted, dripping candelabra, closed the door behind me, knelt before the weathered violin case on its platform of perfumed boxes and bowed my head in prayer. I begged for a haunting, for the lithe spirit of my Sylph to come to me now that I was all alone a room so heavy with ghosts. A faint draft would enter on occasion, shuffling the endless pages of music that were stored therein. I would not leave until she came to me and as I waited, I visited those stacks of masterpieces that the other men had so clearly overlooked. I hummed each lively melody, caressed the smudges of her tiny fingerprints and stopped myself when I found my tears were landing on the pages and nearly altering what my brilliant Sylph had penned.

My grief crippled me. I returned to the case and held it to my chest as I cried, a broken man, on the dusty floor. Its rounded top fit beneath my chin, almost as perfectly as her golden head did while she dreamed in my arms. There is no shame in admitting that I found sleep that night, cradling the priceless relic. She came to me, not as the beautiful specter that I had envisioned, but as a whim at dawn's first light. A new desire entered my heart and filled me with warmth and incentive. Sylvia was with me, whispering in my ear, telling me to free the lonely violin and play. I obliged. I pulled each latch and lifted the lid of the case. Deep down, I knew what its presence would replace, and I dreaded beholding it. To look upon that violin, the one item that she would only be parted from through death, would be our truest end. I expected to see it there, a beautiful corpse to replace her own, but there was no violin to be found. It was empty. As empty as my Sylvia's grave. In its place, at the center of the lined receptacle, I slender white feather had been laid by her hands for me to find. She was out there, flesh and bone and breath. She was waiting for me, somewhere. Sylvia was alive.


	47. Cornwallis

I felt as though I were a traveler on a land-bound ship and the life that I lived before was gradually materializing on the horizon. My men feared me now, but just as I had no distinct recollection of the ties that bound John and I as one, I could not recall the abuse that I had inflicted on them while lost in a haze of drunkenness and grief. Banastre was harsh, I was cruel and the tyrannical yoke that we forced upon our young dragoons was brought to the attention of our commanders. Tavington, naturally, was the one who complained and when that complaint was revoked, a series of challenges transpired. When I returned, sober and perhaps even hopeful for the future, I witnessed the height of their rivalry and the inevitable outcome that landed the three of us at the mercy of Lord Cornwallis, himself.

Tavington wore his usual sneer that morning. I caught sight of it as I turned my head to avoid John's eyes in the neighboring corridor. He was the broken man, now. I saw him for no more than a fleeting instant since our severance and even so, I knew the damage that I had inflicted upon him. It puzzled me. Forgive my humbleness, but I never expected reciprocation when I declared my love. Back then, back in that simpler time before I was aware of the implication of my feebleminded desire, it was only in my wildest dream that John Andre loved me, too. Not only had he loved me, he harbored a devotion that few hearts could ever rival. And that terrible man, that bitter, sanctimonious fool, saw humor in the wreckage of my sweet John's soul. Anger boiled inside of me. I passed on giving Cornwallis a trace of acknowledgement and instead, shoved Tavington towards the outermost chair and pulled Banastre towards me so that I would not have to sit beside him.

"Gentlemen!" Cornwallis slammed his fist into the wooden desk. The three of us startled and turned to attention, immediately reduced to a lot of errant schoolboys. "What disgraceful conduct. In the presence of your superior, no less." As the lines of fury softened on his face, I realized just how familiar he was. I had seen him before, heard that voice, if not in a lighter demeanor. Those dark, intelligent, albeit insectile eyes challenged me. "You must be the Loyalist Captain. Your record is most impressive, Sir," when he realized that this conversation was one-sided, annoyance seared deeper into his borderline aged features, "of course, I am slowly learning that poor manners are common amongst those hailing from New Jersey. Will I ever learn to let go of my lofty expectations?! Which brings me, of course, to you two."

He turned slightly, staring collectively at Tarleton and Tavington. I refused to release the tension in my shoulders, I simply watched as the glutenous spider devoured the two larger flies that had landed on his web, hoping that he would be satisfied with their blood before turning to me once more. My eyes drifted aimlessly over his desk. A large map of the colonies had been spread out for studying. A second, smaller outline covered its base. My heart contorted, not quite furious, not quite wounded, but certainly aghast when I saw that he had been looking over a mapping of the Ballard's property. I wondered if he knew of my history in that place. I wondered if such a thing mattered in the slightest. All that I knew for certain was that Lord Cornwallis was a collector of land and this new piece of property meant very little to him, it was just another pretty, polished rock in a pouch of priceless gems.

"If my dragoons are to stay in the north," I heard Banastre clarify during a tiny lull in Cornwallis' calculated and well-rehearsed speech, "and you are to take Tavington and our newest recruits to the Carolinas, I have but one request." He looked to me and a nuance that I scarcely could imagine him ever donning covered Banastre's façade. In it, I glimpsed sweetness and sentimentality. "The northern colonies have been unkind to Captain Bordon. The outbursts and conflicts that you have read of were caused by his personal ghosts, by memories and demons that live in these hills. I wish for him a new frontier. Take him with you. It will be nothing short of losing a brother, but-"

"- Captain Bordon's transfer has already been negotiated, Colonel." Cornwallis interrupted, flatly. "Major Andre recommended him to me this morning."

Powerless, I looked to my boots. I was moved by Banastre's sacrifice, hurt by the initiative that John had taken to rid New York of my presence, but above all, panic prevailed. If I wanted to know what had become of Sylvia, I would have to sweep the city for clues and in a limited timeframe, no less. It was already decided that I would visit Lars. That once unnerving task paled in comparison to my newest challenge: to somehow gain the trust of Lord Cornwallis and access to the estate. All eyes were on me. I could sense Tavington's distaste with the news that I was to become his second-in-command. From Banastre and Lord Cornwallis, however, expectance. If I wanted to be more than a bargaining chip, a homeless pup tossed to the nearest contender, I would have to find my voice. "I accept," I mumbled, eyes still locked on my toes. "My Lord, I do have questions. If you could find time to confer, I would…" with a faint intake of breath, I cursed my cowardice. I hunted deep inside for that spark of energy that I had carried into the room with me, the one that had encouraged me to push Tavington aside with all my might. Corwallis gestured to the others in my periphery and all at once, we were completely alone.

"This will be your first transfer, Captain?" He clasped his hands and forced a friendly smile. Clearly, he believed that I was on the same plane of intelligence as a child or a tick-infested-mutt. My behavior was partly to blame. The rest, I sensed was on account of my birthplace. Instead of speaking, I looked to the paper on his desk and, tottering, rose to look at it in full. The pond where I had carried Sebastian to was the first location that I touched. From there, my fingers traced the trail to the hilltop where he was buried. "The Ballard Estate. You know it? I received it in a will this last year and have only recently started to visit it regularly. It is a pretty piece of land." I caught half of his smile in the corner of my eye as I nodded in agreement. "I perused your record earlier, out of formality. Your name is Boris. That is not a name you hear every day. It might amuse you to know that my wife insisted on calling our firstborn 'Boris'. Would you care to know what we decided upon in the end? Alice!" He chuckled, to my amazement. "They sound similar, I suppose."

"Yes," I murmured, shyly, "they do." I looked behind him, to where a magnificent painting of a dark-haired woman in purple hung. The walls bore no portraiture, however, of his new bride. "I grew up very close to that estate, Sir and knew the Ballards well. Before enlisting, I would deliver parcels to the General and his lovely daughters. Of course, I left a very small impression upon them. No more than a flake of springtime snow that lands on the warming ground."

He pulled the map towards himself, almost defensively. "Today is the first day that I have heard your name, Captain, but do not despair. Time remembers all encounters, no matter how insignificant they may seem." I straightened my back and nodded, fighting against the news that I had been forgotten by the General and the girls who were once by law, my sisters. "Are you unwell? If you are about to be sick, I'll ask that you please step outside and not soil my new office!"

Taking the cue, like a lost actor on stage, I covered my mouth and dashed through the door. That was the first impression that I left on my new commander, a lost and anxious soul from New Jersey with a sour stomach. I ran past my colleagues and headed to the vault, the only safe place that I knew of in all the city. Sylvia, or what was left of her brilliance, was waiting for me in that cool, dark room. It was my chapel and there, surrounded by that maze of music and glowing candles, I planned on spending the remainder of my days in New York. My pulse steadied and I forced myself not to recall the humiliating conversation that I had shared with Lord Cornwallis. My footsteps echoed in the silence, the palatial hallway of the bank was quiet, but certainly not empty. It was never fully vacant there. Something endured, something was ever-present in that shadowy maze of locked rooms. I turned the corner, intent on spending another series of heartbreaking hours in tearful prayer, but fate had different plans that day. Sylvia had another visitor. He was hunched over, concealed, forcing a tall grouping of parchment through the opening beneath the door. My footfalls ceased, and I froze in place.

"Show yourself!" I demanded, feeling invaded upon by this caped interloper. "I am armed, Sir. I am armed, and you are tampering with my dearest possession!"

A sour, screeching laugh rose like a toxin from beneath the figure's hood. He looked directly at me, half of his face was still in shadow, but I knew who those brown eyes and malformed teeth belonged to. "What did I tell you, Boris?" Lars sprung to his feet, nearly kicking over the unbound papers on the floor. "You are a natural-born actor!"

"Why are you here? What is-?" He staggered towards me and before I could finish my thought, placed the front page of a new movement in my hands. The penmanship was undeniably hers. The ink had barely tacked. I felt an eruption of fire from within, of longing, joy and unbridled love. "Why are you here?" I asked again, blinking away a wave of newborn tears.

"I am helping our Sylph, of course. She always produces more music than I can carry, too. Look at this!" Lars hoisted the remaining parchment from the ground and shoved it into my arms. "All of that in one month! A month! She won't say, of course, but I know that it is because she misses you."

I held her newest opus close, stumbling back into the wall. "You've seen her? You've seen my Sylvia in the flesh?"

Earnestly and with a trace of sadness, Lars touched the pages in my hands. "She is not the same. I do not believe that she will ever return to who she was before, my friend."

With a pained cry, I recalled the terrible seizures that had pulled her away like a greedy tide, redefining who she was forever. I thought of asking just how much of her was gone, if she could walk or speak or if she would remember my face if I were to stand before her again. Those pivotal questions lost their importance as reality settled in. All that mattered was the music that Lars was hiding away and that my sweet Sylph had lived to share more divine melodies with the world. "She lives?" I asked, breathlessly.

"Yes. Sylvia lives."


	48. Return and Remembrance

It was on holy Sunday. The vesper bells were chiming in the shadowy dusk. A sliver of moonlight, arced and perfect as the neck of a swan took flight above the cityscape. The red planet of Mars beamed overhead in a rosy hue and all of nature seemed to wait with me in silence for Sylvia's resurrection. I paced in the street below the draper's shop, anticipating the hour that Lars had foretold, when my darling bride would appear in the overhead window. I heard no music and my heart grew grim. How could the Sylph visit that attic of instruments without playing a single note? I drew nearer, my sweating palms were clasped behind my back. A drunken conglomeration of young dragoons passed me by, rigidly descending into silence when they noticed I was near. I showed little interest in them and once the boys rounded the corner, they became rowdy once more. There was a light in the back of the room and with it, came shadows. Had I been in my best mind, I would have convinced myself that they belonged to the curtain that was billowing against the windowpane, but the entirety of the building seemed a haunted thing that evening.

I moved again, circumnavigating the softly glowing orb of light, the halo that radiated from the room. The chanting vespers grew hushed, releasing a final, resonating echo to journey from the bell tower, through the dark structures and cobbled streets over which they reined superior. I had waited five days for this haunting and ardently spent every night hence on the floor of the vault. For five long days, I clung to Lars' word that she was alive and that I would see her now, on Sunday evening. So, I watched, knowing that she was due to arrive at any second, wondering if I had blinked and missed my chance altogether. My eyes had not grown sore, I kept them busy, parsing all that there was to know about that tiny window. Had I held true to its center and not been so thorough, I might have missed her. Cold and majestic, she stood. She was handling a forward-facing violin beneath her breast, touching its soundless strings as though she was under a spell and they were the key to her release. By the vacancy in her eyes and the sightless acknowledgement of the instrument's strings, I wondered if this was the change that Lars had warned me of.

My imagination stole me away from reality. I contemplated our next meeting and what I might say to her now that she was blind. I waited for her eyes to fall upon me, but Sylvia did not break free from her trance. I would love her all the same, no matter the damage that the noose had inflicted upon her. As I made those foolish vows, I nearly missed the evidence that there was sight left in those verdant, green eyes. She blinked, freeing the glaze of tears that she had held onto and, after hearing someone approaching her from behind, stashed the violin with her usual swiftness and dexterity. Her visitor appeared through the glass and she moved towards him, revealing to me the black mourning gown that she wore. I was able to identify him, not from the numerous laurels on his coat or the meticulously powdered hairpiece on his head, but from his profile. Lord Cornwallis placed his hand beneath Sylvia's chin and, with more tenderness than I knew he had the capacity for, brushed her tears away and gave her lips a light, elongated kiss.

Every simplistic dream, every comforting notion that I held within me fell apart at the seams. I felt a familiar sting in my heart, the same dark and cataclysmic rage that I had succumbed to when Thorne told me that he and his men had raped my wife. I was so close to her now, close enough to call out to her, to beg for her forgiveness, to set each wrong right and yet, she had been stolen away before I had the chance to reach her. Lovingly, he admired the dress for a few short seconds before drawing her near and comforting her further. She carried herself with such propriety now, with a stature fit for a queen. Even as her new husband held her near, Sylvia refused to melt into him. She wiped her face, ashamed and looked out the window to the cloudless sky. I saw activity in her eyes now and stumbled upon a trace of comfort to know that she could see. But there I was, loving her, grieving the end of our lives together and she looked past me as though I were a sewer rat, scampering pathetically across the cobblestones. Cornwallis pointed in the general location that she had been watching in the mighty firmament. I saw his mouth form the red star's name and from there, he started to connect the impending stars together. Sylvia, despite her melancholy, seemed to delight in watching the skies with him and, after several minutes, rested her head on his shoulder.

I continued to watch the building, even after they abandoned the attic and moved downstairs to the draper's shop. She was having a dress made, a mourning gown, by the looks of it. Assuming my calculations were correct, she had only recently come out of mourning for her father. The tears in her eyes, although foreign to me, seemed to come from a newer wound and I was forced to ponder who it was she cried for now. To storm into the building and demand answers from them both but especially, from Lars, would have been criminal. I was gutted, confused and on the verge of tears, myself, but I did not wish to injure an already wounded Sylvia. Each pain in my heart was stashed away, quietly brewing into molten fury that I would soon unleash upon Lars, once my beloved and her new protector stole away into the night. Now, it seemed my truest purpose was to hide and weep while the world continued on, heedless of my broken soul. There was joy, too. A fragile jubilation within me that came from seeing her alive, but it quickly tarnished in the tempest's briny winds. The street was silent, more silent now than it had ever been. I came expecting to hear her music, to witness her grace- not this. Anything but this gradual decline into ruin, witnessed only by the indifferent stars and planets, soothed only by the piercing silence and loveless breeze.

While wallowing in my despair, in the utter insignificance of my existence, I saw the door swing open. The Lord and his Lady stepped out, side by side and turned to face each other. Now, she kissed him. The sterile encasement of her hands in those familiar doeskin gloves robbed the moment of _some_ romance, but not all. Her wardrobe had changed, her gown was modest, grey and fit for the same purpose as the black one. It was a peculiar sight, to see my fair swan's fathers wax dark. She was too young for grief, to lively for this new role that God had so carelessly cast her in. Was this the price that I would have to pay for us to tread the same globe, to live by the same calendar and clock? To hear the same church bells and breathe the same air? Sylvia could exist and so could I, but not together as nature had intended us to be? She nestled into his broad, decorated chest. Had her father lived to witness their union, he would have died a happy man. This was the caliber of marriage that he had advocated for. It was a stark representation of the world that Sylvia was born into and it was more than I could bear. I was relieved to see their embrace loosen and the tiny farewell kiss that he left upon her hand.

"Two hours, then." Cornwallis said. It was a command, more or less, but in a lighter tone than he would ever use on his men. "Not a minute more. I do not understand why you love this old draper's shop so!"

I snorted at his ignorance. Did he not see the plethora of instruments in the attic? Did he not know that Lars and his family had sponsored Sylvia since the dawn of her career? Did he know his wife at all? The gloves on her hands, the ones that she had tossed aside when we married told me all that I needed to know. She was back in hiding. She was living the same lie as before and it was my quest to free her. I waited until Cornwallis turned the corner, until the insufferable chiming of his regalia and the hoof-like clapping of his boots against the ground was no more than a faint whisper. I approached the door, prepared to knock and appear cordial. Anger leapt onto my shoulders, devouring me in a single gulp like a tremendous demon that had been lurking in the alleyway, waiting until I was close enough to attack. I kicked the door, straight off its hinges. Lars stepped in front of Sylvia and his paling wife. They were both in the corner, conversing innocently over a collection of pages containing the Sylph's newest masterpiece.

"Lord Cornwallis?!" I blared, ridding Lars of his musket before he had the chance to use it in his defense. "Do you find it amusing, Sir? Ripping out the beating heart of a man and crushing it before his waking eyes? Do you realize the agony that you might have saved me, had you told me beforehand?!" I turned briefly, taking in the destruction. "You are fortunate that it was just your door."

Despite the demands from the master and mistress of the house, Sylvia rose. There was fear in her eyes. Fear, but also wonder. Her hand, now naked, was touched defensively to her throat. The nearer she drew, the lower her hand sloped, revealing a pale scar from the noose that had not been strong enough to end her. As she looked up at me, the coldness from before, the façade of propriety vanished. She was that wide-eyed child again, waiting on the floor for a lovely new parcel.

"Do you sing, Sir?" Her cryptic expression honeyed. Into admiration, I think, a ghost of the love that she carried for me since the first day that I knocked on her door. "And if you do not, perhaps you could try. You have a voice like a cello." She held out her hand and, with the heaviest of hearts, I obliged. "Come."

She pointed to the bass line and asked if I could hum along while she played. My sight reading was just shy of mediocrity, but I applied myself as best I could for the first few measures. When she began to play, my throat swelled. There was a sense of beauty that I never thought I would behold again. I recalled a time when this sight was commonplace, the perfection of her form, the half-smile on her lips, the occasional flutter of her lashes and the acrobatic proficiency of those clever fingers upon the strings. Her creation, as ever, was daring. It was lovely enough for angels to recline to, for Kings of countries far and near to cherish in the solitude of their grand palaces. To me, however, it was a message of sorrow flown in on the weathered wings of my swan. I heard despair in those lilting notes, a secret aching that would never be satisfied, I saw traces of my betrayal and the empty room that our sweet son once filled. I looked at her, this thriving champion, this unbreakable goddess whose strength knew no bounds. She was more than a prize to fight Cornwallis for, she was unobtainable to all.

"Sir?" Sylvia asked when my voice finally collapsed into itself. "You have witnessed great sadness. I can see it in your eyes."

I took her in, burning an image of those delicate features into my mind to hold forever. I had been so foolish, so unaware of this shining treasure, this woman who martyred herself for her family and forgave my sins without question. Her father had described her in that final letter as a "shell", but I refused to believe this. There were memories in those eyes, secrets that could endure a thousand lifetimes and that I knew without a doubt that I was a part of. Shyness commandeered my senses once more and I glanced at the grim attire that she was clothed in. The Sylvia that I knew had mourned her sister and niece, but refused to display her grief in such a way. Even if her former self had remained unaltered by Sebastian's loss, I know she would have done the same. Music. It was through her music that those emotions poured. She wore that gown and was about to receive another because of the societal pedestal that she stood upon. It was through the influence of Cornwallis that she was making this statement and, being the awkward fool that I am, I challenged it. "Many months have passed since the loss of General Ballard," I said with feigned confidence, "when will you wear colors again, my Lady?"

She was stunned. Stunned, but stoic. In the furthest and most remote canyon of those emerald eyes, I saw a dam break, but the tears were too distant to flow into this world. "The absence of my father is a heavy weight to bear. I shall mourn him for the remainder of my days, but the trappings that you see are not for him." Sylvia straitened her back, putting her strength on display, but I saw right through to the deep slice across her heart that I had so carelessly thrown a fistful of salt upon. "They are for my daughter, Sir. Sweet Alice Cornwallis. She had golden hair."

"Forgive me!" Tears streaked my cheeks, but I was not ashamed of them. I deserved this shock, this pain. Lord Cornwallis had mentioned Alice once before and if he was grieving, he hid it well. I wondered when this terrible event had occurred and feared the answer.

"You would not have known. It happened only yesterday morning. The first week of life is never easy for a babe so small, you see, but Charles and I held out hope for her, nonetheless. Is that foolish?"

I recoiled, casting my eyes on the floor. It must have been an impulse when I reached for her hand. It must have been an impulse for her, too, to accept my own. Across the room, Lars was grumbling and attempting to repair the door, the thumping of a mallet against a new nail caused both Sylvia and I to jump. I apologized to her, quickly and clumsily. Despite my incentive to let go, to leave and never return, I remained with her. If things truly were as they seemed, she experienced Sebastian's death in a very different way than I had. It was a broken bridge, a broken bridge over dangerous heights to meet upon. I loathed Tarleton once and found no satisfaction when he lost Viola, I had wished unthinkable tragedies upon Tavington every now and then, but would collapse into a useless pile of sympathetic tears if fate ever caused him to bury his child. I longed to find common ground with Sylvia. I even forged ill wishes for Cornwallis in the darkest chambers of my heart, but not this. Anything but this.

"You needn't cry," she coaxed, radiating strength through sorrow, as was her way. "What is your name?" I told it to her without hesitation and watched a distant light grow from within. "Boris," Sylvia repeated, "of course! You were the parcel boy! You were the only visitor who didn't frighten our swans! Papa used to say it was because you kept bread in your pockets, but I had a different theory…"

I smiled and wiped my eyes in embarrassment. "What? That it wasn't bread, but muffins? Let me be the first to state my case, Lady Cornwallis, it was muffins. I fed muffins to your swans!"

She covered her mouth, trying to laugh daintily, as I assumed she had been trained to do in recent months. It was hopeless. In the two brief seconds that she required to control herself, I saw that radiant smile once more. It was ours to share and no one else's to behold. "Case closed. I should have known!"

"You mean to say that you thought it was something other than bribery?"

"Yes," she lowered her voice and glanced across the room, just to ensure that no one else could hear. "It was this and nothing more, Boris, that you were exceptionally gentle and kind." Before letting go of my hand and returning to her music, she gave it a gentle squeeze. "And you are. Just as I remember you."


	49. The Precipice

Before, I believed that my life had been reduced to wreckage. That each shining moment of unfathomable hope, each memory that I possessed of growing from a lonesome lad with modest ambitions into a man with a family, a home and a future that I never dared to dream of- were lost, a shattered desolation left to crumble beneath my boots for the remainder of my days. During my final months in New York, I learned that the merciful Lord who had gifted me with a love and livelihood that I was never worthy of possessing in the first place, remained vengeful. Tavington was partly to blame. His eagerness to please Lord Cornwallis led to more interactions, more invitations than I found comfort in receiving. The men would bicker over dinner and I would sit, unable to move, unable to eat or drink or think of anything but the woman at the head of the table. She would watch me. I could sense her eyes upon me, but not once was I courageous enough to look above her plate whenever I felt that soft vigil. She picked at her food, limiting herself to miniscule rations but only when her husband encouraged her to eat. Had he not been there, she would have starved alongside me. I studied this behavior of hers, never satisfied with the diagnosis. If she knew more than she was letting on, if there was a trace of love for me behind this pretty new mask, why hadn't she returned to me?

Her demeanor around Lord Cornwallis was troubling at best. She looked at him with fondness, with earnest admiration. There was no falsehood to the loving glances that she gifted him with, the concern and pride in her eyes when he spoke of his victories or her secretive tactics to be as close to him as was acceptable. Call me what you will, but it was the magnetism, the blatant attraction that they shared with one another that weighed on my spirits the most. As far as I was concerned, her father brought them together while he was still alive, and she had grown to care for him. To love him. He had stolen my place in her heart. So, I grew sick. With jealousy, with love, with worry. On one occasion, John appeared with his latest conquest on his arm and a peculiar cloud rolled in, casting a shade over Sylvia that encouraged my wounded hope. The expression was muted, but I knew what it implied nonetheless- she was staring daggers at John. Now, he was the one to watch me, guilted, seeing with more clarity than anyone nearby how thin and pale I had become. When the wine was drained, and Miss Shippen was otherwise occupied, he cornered me in the parlor.

"I am sorry for requesting your transfer," he whispered. His words were hollow, he was merely making noise to ensure that I could still hear or better yet, that I had any incentive to respond. "You must know, I only caught word of Sylvia after you left me. I would not have kept such a thing from you. Boris?"

Emotionless, I excavated the same incantation that I used on myself every night when I could not sleep. "It does not matter. She has a new life, a better life than I ever could have provided her with. What's more, she has escaped the painful memory of my betrayal and all that she has lost at my expense. This crossroad is a reminder of God's own mercy. She deserves peace."

John's hand found the small of my back. I did not want to, but my body leaned into his touch, supported by his strength. "Come home. Let me care for you and watch over you."

In the corner of my eye, I saw the slender figure of Sylvia turn. She touched her husband's arm, requesting that he excuse her. Cornwallis must have granted her permission because she briefly vanished and appeared beside me soon after with an opaque drinking glass in her hand. I believed then, if only for an instant, that she understood- that she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was the one I chose. "Drink this," those gentle hands swept over my shoulder. Her touch was so different from John's. Feminine. Motherly. I glanced sheepishly over the rim of the cup and she smirked. "It isn't wine, I promise. Our main well has been dry for a while now. This is from the one out back. But it is fresh and it is cold."

I inched towards her, a gentle move, but John sensed my roughness, my dismissiveness. He lowered his hand before Sylvia knew where he was touching me. Truthfully, her focus was locked on my face and it made my cheeks blush hotly. It was the cruelest irony that I had ever known, to become so shy in the presence of the woman who once knew me so well, who had loved me and accepted me in a way that I never believed possible. She was so beautiful, so caring and pure. I accepted her offering and as that cool drink washed over my throat, I tried to swallow my sorrow with it. I longed to move closer, still. I was parched and hungry, but food and drink would never nourish me. Only Sylvia could. I remembered so vividly the flavor of her kiss, the dainty sting of salt in her sweat and how all of my senses sang when I bit toothlessly into the ripe fruit of her womanhood. I was boiling over with lust and as the vague image of her with another man was pushed into my mind- fury. Unbelievably, I remained quiet and still, revealing nothing, saying nothing, going nowhere.

"You are frightened, aren't you?" Sylvia blinked. Her smile was demure, but as had become the way of this divine, new creature before me, I knew that she was holding back. Her innocence was feigned, although there was not telling just how much of her was a ruse. "I asked Charles about you. Please don't be cross with me. I was curious. I know how far South Carolina is from your home. It will be the furthest distance that you have ever traveled from New Jersey but hear me when I say that you are in good hands. The best hands." A flustered, nervous chuckle caused her smile to deepen. She covered her mouth, as though she were ashamed to convey a realistic emotion. "Forgive me, Captain. I babble. It lands me in a world of trouble, most days."

"You do not babble, Ma'am. I appreciate your kindness."

John nearly bowed his head. Nearly, not quite. He caught himself succumbing to gravity just as quickly as his hopes deflated. He corrected his posture and turned to me, expecting a trace of acknowledgement. I retreated, crossed my arms and waited for him to read my thoughts.

Sylvia, the bravest individual in a room full of warriors, took the initiative. "Major Andre, I find it rather crass that you left poor Miss Shippen to fend for herself. Right in the middle of a pack of wolves, no less! You should save her before Colonel Tavington starts biting at her heels like the needy little pup he is!" I saw him look to me in my periphery but instead of facing him, I watched the venom in Sylvia's eyes evaporate into nothingness. She winked at me and I felt dizzier still. Wolves? I located the whisper of a scar on her wrist from the wolf that she had butchered to save Sebastian and I, hunting and praying for her wording to be referential, to carry a deeper meaning that I was meant to find like a buried treasure on a sandy shore. "Boris. Drink."

I watched her lips this time as I drank, closing my eyes when the flavorful water touched my tongue. It tasted of the earth, of minerals and morning dew. I could not indulge in a thing so earthy, so raw without thinking of my Sylph. A trace of her heat remained on the outer surface of the cup, I savored it, recalling that afternoon in the flat that stood less than a mile away. Eagerly, I allowed myself to be transported to the windowsill where she sat, playing a new song that she had penned for me while the juices from a nearby bowl of cherries glossed her fingers. I remembered the sheerness of her gown, how I had pulled it up and over her thighs like the fabric of a bridal veil and coaxed her supple body into orgasm with no more than my lips and tongue. And she had played, like an acrobat, without missing a note. She had told me, after the fact, that the song was a dedication to my cupid's bow- that tiny, insignificant arch at the top of my upper lip. I contributed so little, I should have created art in her honor, too. I should have found a way to declare my devotion to her for all the world to hear. Instead, I blindly hoped to please her. I had pleased her. I was her protector, her lover, her _husband_. No one else on earth could replace me for Sylvia or Sylvia for me. Over the short years that we were one, our hearts had melted into one another. Now that we were apart, we were both left with gaping holes that only the other could fill.

A doleful wave of music carried over from the next room. Two notes in and I knew its name and context. I thought at first that I was imagining it, but when my eyes snapped open, I saw deep creases of thought in her brow and recognition in her eyes. Had she planned this? Was she toying with me? It was that same song, I swear it! The one that had debuted on our windowsill on that golden afternoon. "A dance?"

"A dance?" I repeated, returning to my prior place of enchantment- the wet varnish on her naturally coral lips. "Respectfully, my Lady, that conduct would not be proper."

Rejection did not affect Sylvia. She grabbed hold of my arm and guided me to where Cornwallis stood, grinning cleverly the entire time. "Darling," she caressed his sleeve again and my heart sunk far below the rafters, "may I dance with Boris, please?"

Cornwallis gave me a sideways glance that was, to my surprise, not at all cold. He was delighted by this request and I was amazed. She was a married woman in gown made for mourning. The mere notion of her dancing under this condition was not only frowned upon, it was forbidden. Yet, he was beaming and it wasn't long before I realized why. It was amusing for him. "With Captain Bordon? Very well." He chuckled lightly. The idea of Sylvia and I together did not threaten him in the slightest, it was a farce and if I am being completely honest, I was not troubled by his reaction. That was one joke that he could keep.

Sylvia led. Of course, she led. I was reminded how dreadful I was at dancing and no doubt; our onlookers were delighted to see me scuttle and trip over my feet. She slowed the pace. Now, we were dancing in a contrasting meter, but neither one of us cared. Sylvia was not after perfection, she was searching for something else although, it was difficult to say what it was exactly that she thought she would accomplish by dancing with me.

"I am sorry," I grumbled the second time that I stepped on her toes. "You have overestimated me, I'm afraid."

"Overestimated?" Her left eyebrow arched smartly. "I stand by my decision. Charles finds dancing superfluous. Major Andre is a fool. Colonel Tavington, in case you have not noticed, does not dance at all, he trots like a pony at show! Besides, I have been meaning to talk to you about a rather serious matter and music makes me bolder."

"If this is regarding my poor appetite, some soldiers find it beneficial to fast before a long journey. Or a battle."

"Is that so?" Nearer she moved, our proximity was bordering indecency. I could have sworn that she was about to embrace me, to place her head against my shoulder, but she did not. The energy that was stored in the empty space between us, however, morphed into something beautiful and rare. It was invisible, unpalpable, but I felt such comfort radiating from within her. It wrapped around me and failed to leave go. "You are a good man, I can tell. You are a man of your word. I look at you and am certain that you hold to any promise that you make. Will you make me a promise tonight?" Those dazzling eyes locked on mine. I knew that look, better than Cornwallis, better than any man in all the world. She loved me. I swallowed, my throat had dried again. She waited patiently for me to nod and when I did, she proceeded, still utterly lost in my eyes. "Be swift, be accurate, be always on your guard and though it is your creed as a soldier to put the lives of your men before your own," she hesitated, touching my face for only a moment before retreating. No one else had seen. "Hold tightly to this world."

"You will not travel to the Carolinas, then? You will remain here while your husband is away?" I asked, foolishly. She had given me this demand before, when I was on the precipice of death following Bunker Hill. My memory and emotions were shifting, spinning, spiraling out of control like a storm on the ocean. Her request was harmless enough, but it reminded me of my own mortality. What if I were to fall in that distant colony, while she was so far away? I survived the surgeon's knife that night in the church because she found me in time and pulled me back with her incredible love. I was hollow without her, hollow and weak. I was withering away before her eyes, gasping for air, grasping for the slightest indication that she could save me and make me strong once more. "Do you love him?" She stepped away. Her hand remained on my shoulder, but the tenderness between us was immediately suspended. The love in those eyes was traded in for defensive condemnation. "Do you love him, Sylvia?" I pleaded a second time, trying to appear strong and failing miserably. "I must know. Forgive me, but I must."

"Are you asking me if I love my husband?!" Her voice remained hushed. Despite my terror of what I had done (and could never undo), I wondered if perhaps, she was trying to protect me by not screaming or shrieking, as she was certainly entitled to do. No, her reaction was far worse. With an unwavering glare, she curtsied and turned towards the staircase that led to the private, residential quarters. "Enjoy the remainder of your evening, Captain Bordon."


	50. The Final Prophecy

In the silence, I awaited the repercussions for my actions. There was no predicting the path that Sylvia would take but whether she chose to inform him of my intentions or to simply resign from conversing with me altogether, it was justified. Cornwallis did not seem shaken by how early she retired. Her grief had made her fragile and flighty. However, I could not say what words would pass between them when their visitors departed, and they were alone together once more. I continued to drink from the cup that she had given me, savoring each tiny sip until the last drop of water spilled onto my tongue. Only then did I allow myself to leave their lovely, albeit temporary New York home. Living in the barracks with the other men in the days leading up to our long journey together might have benefited me. I was respected by them, feared even. Heaven knows, Tavington was, too. Our dragoons kept the two of us in the same bracket and it was a delicate balance, indeed: they did not question us out of fear, but they did not trust us, either. To ride with them, patrol with them and eventually, to lead them into battle was a disaster waiting to happen. The bank was a sorrowful place to live. Uncomfortable. Impractical. Yet, I returned to it without fail.

I fashioned a bed for myself there, from the blanket that I kept on my saddle and several lacey pillows that were stored alongside the possessions from Sylvia's childhood bedroom. Had anyone seen me, they would have believed that I'd gone mad- and I had! There was permanence now to the aching in my heart. Shedding tears came as easily as drawing and releasing breath. I was crippled, content only when I had a bit of her music in my hands. I would leave those pages there, but on my last evening in New York, I began transferring them into my personal journal to carry with me to South Carolina. My tears flowed freely. It was a satisfying act, better than tossing and turning in my sleep, but as ever, it hurt to feel her presence and absence all at once. The task was entrancing. My quill grew rhythmic and I hummed each line of music as I worked. I remembered many of the tunes, to revisit them was to revisit the years that we had shared, never guessing where they would lead us.

As the midnight hour approached, my pace changed from methodical sorrow to panic. I wanted to carry as much of Sylvia with me as I possibly could, and daybreak would arrive much too soon. As I scribbled a new staff across an empty page, the pointed end of my quill snapped under pressure. Ink splattered across my hand and over the floor, it seeped into the pages of Sylvia's masterpiece and my talentless copies. I formed a fist, crushing the feather. I was never prone to tantrums before so when this one came, it was an explosion of all that I had ever held inside. Every pretty hat box, vanity and mirror was destroyed by my anger. How I didn't turn over a candlestick and set the room ablaze was a miracle. I avoided them, somehow, the way that I avoided the stacks of parchment against the walls. I suppose the reason for this was that I did not hate Sylvia. I hated the world that had claimed her since birth and declared us foils. I hated her wealth just as I hated my poverty. I hated her schooling, the tacit rules that had formed her, the elitist dispositions of General Ballard and Lord General Cornwallis. I hated the stark comparisons that others found in her beauty and my plainness. I hated it all and though I could not destroy the forces that had tried to sever us from the beginning, I found a trace of pleasure in destruction. Even if what I was destroying was Sylvia's prized possessions.

My ears were ringing when I finally caught my breath. I must have found a featherbed somewhere and torn it open because there were bits of goose down falling upon me and clinging to my hair like snow as I recovered. There was also a hand, a steady hand on my shoulder. I was still so numb and distressed to identify it. With an angry and startled cry, I spun around and slammed my fist into the intruder's face. The salted haze across my eyes was thick, but just transparent enough to behold a beautiful woman in an ivory gown. She stepped backwards and held her position while I brushed away my tears. The injury was on the right, just above her precious jawline. She didn't raise her hand to the impact or swing at me in return. I only knew that she was in pain by the slightest crease in her brow and the ephemeral journey of a single tear that evaporated in the corner of her mouth. She looked at me, unblinking, with fire in her eyes. It was a complex expression that she wore, a borderline identical twin to the look that she gave me when I asked if she loved Lord Cornwallis.

"No!" I shook my head and stumbled towards her. All that I wanted was to turn back time and remove the damage that I had inflicted. She did not flinch. She was so strong. I sunk to her feet like a stone, prepared to kiss them and beg for her forgiveness. "No! I did not know that it was you! I would never harm you! I would never even dream of harming you, Lady Cornwallis!" There on the ground, I barely managed to ponder where her mourning gown had gone. The white boots on her feet with silver buckles and the lacey hemming on her dress were the antithesis of her required apparel.

"Nor would I," she bent and in a single, graceful sweep, lowered her own lithe body to the floor to sit amidst the down and broken bits of furniture. "But I have." I reached out, longing to show my true affection for the patch of flawless skin that I had battered. When I stopped myself, she grabbed hold of my hand and completed its journey. "It is not so dreadful, Boris. Why, Celeste smacked me across the face when I was thirteen and that hurt worse!" She looked to floor. With shyness, perhaps. When she saw my ink-stained project, a smile illuminated her features. "You remembered. You remembered what I asked you to do for me. But that also means," I could tell that she sensed my confusion, "you will carry that journal into battle? A journal full of my melodies? So that you will be identified as the Sylph should you… are you not expecting to hold true to your other promise?"

"I shall, but I have no life to return to. Should death take me, so be it." My words were mechanical. My mind was elsewhere, pondering how that first request could remain in her memory. "Lady Cornwallis, we have only just met. How could I, a stranger, take credit for all that you have done?" She stared at the candle's reflection in a black pool of drying ink. "Why are you here? What if I never return? What if we both live out the remainder of our lives with only answerless questions between us? What sort of a life is that in the first place? Always wondering, always wishing for what is unjustifiable to reach its resolve, but only in heaven or hell? So many pacts have been broken between us. I wish to heal. I wish to proceed with my life, knowing that you are happy. But where to start?"

"With the last question that you asked me, I suppose." Sylvia bowed her head. There was restraint in her fingertips. She wanted to knead the fabric of her gown between them, to channel her nerves into a single location and task- but no, her back was a straight as a pin, her chin perfectly level with the floor upon which she kneeled. She was quiet, still as death, like a virtuous lady in prayer. "Do I love Charles? There is so much to love in everyone that we meet. You taught me that. He is a dear man. He is gentle and kind and has only spoken words of hope and worth into my heart. When I was recovering, when Papa fell into despair, Charles was at my bedside. He knew very little of my past. Papa told him that I had been captured and defiled. The story of my survival intrigued him, humbled him, caused him to care. He saw how deeply I loved my home and knew that I could never be parted from it. His heart still belonged to Jemima, he was still in mourning when we married. We were companions in grief. We took our sadness and turned it to something new. I care for him, Boris. He has lost so much and now, so soon after losing little Alice, he must return to battle. He left last night. I do not know when I will see him again. For the first time in my life, I am alone. I have no father, no sisters, no child to watch over and commit the lonely days ahead to. But I do have a home and for that, I have Charles to thank."

"I am thankful for him, too." I touched the outside of her glove, missing the loveliness that they masked. "Though I may not show it, you must know that I am happy for you. He will return. I have heard of him. He is a man who has never seen defeat. There is no one living today who is so worthy of your time and your love."

As she looked my way, her lips parted. "I have only ever loved one man. I cannot shake his memory. The waters of my pond still conjure up his reflection on the pathway he once walked. I see him in each pleasant dream that I have. He whispers in my ear and I try, as ever, to preserve his voice in music. But there is no sound so sweet, no melody so expressive and yet, I try, Boris. I try to please my muse. You say that you and the Sylph are not one and the same, but that is how I have always seen you. It is in music that I have always found you and where I find you still."

"You knew where to find me!" I allowed her to fall into my chest, but at the same time, my supposedly melodious voice escalated into a shrill plea as I held her. "You knew that I was in New York! Why didn't you come to me instead?!"

"I did once. I did. Before accepting his proposal, I went with my sisters to the harbor to see them off. I looked into the window of John's flat and saw," she exhaled, pouring her warm breath over the opening in my tunic. "You were retiring from your nightly passion. I should have shielded my eyes and burned the memory at its source, but I felt a sense of security, of beauty as I watched him comfort you. Had I witnessed my own reflection every time that we made love, I would have had an image to compare it to… but there was magic in the way that John caressed you. I knew then that you no longer required my love."

"Sylvia, I was numb! I was nobody those nights, nobody at all! Just a nameless vessel without a captain, floating directionless on the tide! Before our life together ended, before your father's letter arrived- the one informing me that you were gone from this earth, I did not lay with John. I was drunk every night, drunk out of my mind and he-" I cut myself off. The bitter fact that John and I had allowed our affection to blossom into intimacy was not my greatest crime against Sylvia. I touched the ring that John had given me, mere hours before my son's neck was broken. It sickened me to know that while I was lusting after another man, Sylvia and our child were being brutalized in ways that I had yet to process. The ring was stuck, I'd tried to remove it countless times before, but it had grown into my flesh in the same fashion as my betrayal. I tried twisting it and when it did not budge, I clung to Sylvia. "I will avenge you. I will avenge Sebastian. I will kill no rebel for England, but in the name of our broken household. You have my word. Oh, Sylvia! Do you remember? Have you forgotten the time that we shared together? How you, body and soul, became more than a lover, more than a wife to me? You were my shelter, my sanctuary. You were my home, my country! Can a heart truly forget love?"

"Forget? Forget, Sweetheart? There is not an instant that I have forgotten. I can still recall the hour that you first knocked upon my door, how many swans were wading in the pond when your reflection made its debut on those blue waters. I remember how you fought to hide the tremble in your limbs when we shared our first dance, the phase that the watchful moon was in when we claimed one another's virginity. How could my heart possibly forget the turmoil that it passed through when you were captured in the siege or when I thought you fell at Bunker Hill? Without my love for you, I cease to exist. Without remembrance of your awkward wedding vows, the tender declarations of love that you would whisper when you thought that I was sleeping, the tearful smile on your face when you watched me hold our newborn son. How? All that I am, I am because you live. I am here today, a survivor of detrimental loss, of bodily and spiritual abuse- I live because you live. I live because I remember. I live because I love. I love you above all. I honor you in the highest."

With as much gentleness as urgency allowed, I removed the glove from her left hand. I felt the permanent indentions on the tips of her fingers and briefly reminisced about the first time that our two hands touched in her estate's cellar. Over and over, I pressed my lips into them, from finger to wrist and back again. Every ounce of strength that I had ever obtained, every trait that I had learned since boyhood to be a protector, a provider, a man- every year of service, those moments of triumph and vengeance, those hours on the battlefield when I was in command were suspended. She saw the tension in my muscles melt away, watched as my mask was lowered. My pride, my dignity and everything in between built up in my eyes and escaped as thick tears. She held me to her breast and I broke down completely. Like a famished child, lost in the woods after dark, I cried out. My entire body shook as I wept into her hair.

She held me closer, placing a damp kiss in the center of my forehead. It was then that I saw it, a new self-fulfilling prophecy that was too honest, too telling not to come true. The crystals of the chandelier above that familiar staircase and entryway bobbed and chimed as the door was opened. Her breathing was elevated, but she did not stop to catch her breath. I knew that she had raced from her favorite window in the estate, from the staircase to the door. The excitable girl, waiting eagerly to tear into her newest parcel was present and yet, that joyful anticipation was not. No, Sylvia was watching the back of a redcoat soldier and the black cape of a driver as the two men hoisted a blanketed body onto the low, marble table by the stairs. Slowly, very slowly they stepped away and she drew near. Her face was somber. Her hand, alarmingly steady as she cast the covering aside. I knew the man. Despite the alterations that death had given his face and the faint appearance of a rust-colored beard that barely had the chance to grow in, I would recognize him anywhere.

She turned his head, carefully. Never before had I considered how my remains would appear after my soul departed. The grayish-blue oval on my cheek where the blood had settled disturbed me, the light kiss of violet on my lips and eyelids was almost too much to bear. I was not beautiful or soft in death like Sebastian, but a hint of adoration held true in Sylvia's eyes even then. She pulled the gloves that she was wearing from her hands and retrieved my right arm, which hung slack over the narrow table's side. The movement of her thumb across my palm in this vision synchronized with reality. As she stroked the dead man's lips, I felt her fingers fall in the exact same place. She was contemplating a kiss, in both worlds. Instead, she knelt beside him and placed her ear against his silent chest while the Sylvia before me chose a different path. She called my name, retreating from my mouth before our lips could touch.

"What is on your mind?" I heard her say. "Boris? Why do you look so frightened?"

I shut my eyes, drowning that terrible image with darkness. It vanished, but the spell that it held over me refused to leave go. I did not want to die. I feared death, I dreaded judgement. I wanted to warn Sylvia of the ending that God had chosen for us from the start; that every time I visited her home with those packages of concealed rosin and strings, another sand would slip through the hourglass, another mile would be crossed, leading us both to the hour of our final reunion. Had I been a better man, I would have followed through. "Do you remember, Sylvia, the first time that I made my love for you known?" The smile that graced her lips held the answer that I sought. She remembered and would never forget. "I told you that your recklessness frightened me because… because I had fallen in love with you. And you asked me-"

"What is love if it is not reckless and frightening?" Her smile grew and together, we laughed at our foolishness.

Soon after, our grins dissipated, and our embrace tightened. "I am not strong enough for this. I cannot simply hold you and then release you into the night."

She mumbled a half-formed plan into my ear, along with an explanation that she had walked to the vaults to retrieve her violin case for her morning journey to New Jersey. She could remain with me for several hours, but truthfully, it would not have mattered if the dawn was already upon us. I felt the heat of her flesh smolder against me and she held me tighter and tighter still. Our grief, our love, our very will to live seemed to depend on how near our bodies were. There was instant of slack when she removed her chin from my shoulder and sought surrender from my lips. Willingly, I kissed her with more depth than ever before. Her tongue across my tongue, her hands throughout my loosened lengths of hair and her beating heart against my own awoke our mutual desire. We did not bother undressing at first, fearing that we might crumble to pieces if we let go of one another long enough. She lifted her petticoat the moment that my erection became apparent and as she guided my towering member through that sea of pretty lace, she gave it a deep and momentary massage. I unraveled at her touch. Together, we swooned. Together, we sighed. It was a crime, but also a means of survival. I was gentle at first, so gentle. I was mindful of her fragility, but Sylvia was the courageous one. We were both famished, both parched, we had traveled long and lonesome miles without food or water and now, we nourished our bodies until the shaking subsided and all that was left was love.

Sylvia lay me down on the floor and slowly ascended into the golden candlelight. Our rhythm was set now, it was melodious and slow. She shed her corset, her gown and chemise without compromising a single passionate thrust. Her many scars were visible from below, but they did not rob her of her beauty or youth. No, they were reminders of all that she survived, of the warrior that she had become. My own scars complimented hers. When she stripped me bare, we both took a while to look upon those ghosts of gashes, of stitches and impalements. We did not need a clergyman, a witness or a judge. We did not need a pair of rings, wedding bells or a shared trust. Our marriage might have been rendered invalid by her father and all the rest of the world, but the evidence of our unbreakable bond was there in permanence across our mortal forms.

There was a time when we were both unscathed, when our bodies were untouched by love and hate alike. As our injuries branded us, our love flourished and it was flourishing still. With this thought in mind, I pulled her close and kissed her breasts. They were different now, rounder and ashier than when she was a virgin. But they were still small and sweet enough to fill only a portion of my hand. Her hips had widened slightly, her belly had stretched and marked from those three ill-fated pregnancies. I manipulated the smooth domes of her buttocks, squeezing them with all of my strength as I ventured deeper inside of her. It was a sudden impact, startling enough to alter her beating heart and unleash a new march of gyrations between us. She leaned to the side, inviting me to cover her and I did. My hair was long now, so long that it formed a partial curtain over our two blissful faces. It brushed across her cheeks and forehead. With each sweep, I saw that telling blush wash over her.

"I'm painting you rouge, m'lady!" I teased when she looked up to gaze into my eyes. She released a broken laugh and my heart danced. "There's that smile! I knew that it was hiding in there somewhere…"

She bit her lip, maintaining that lovely grin for a moment longer before the muscles in her face tensed. Her body rose slightly from the floor, her leg attempted to arch over my back and within seconds, the same wave of ecstasy carried me away alongside her. Desperately, our damp forms clung to each other and we left the world behind us. I tried to keep it a secret, tears have no place in a climax. Or rather, they should not. But I cried, and Sylvia did, too. As we neared our long-awaited satisfaction, our divine completion, our lilting moans of love grew somber. We were in the same state of sorrow as before, but somehow, more alive. Recovering in her arms was nothing short of coming back to life after a long slumber.

Sylvia tucked a chunk of my damp hair behind my ear. "Will you allow me to send you letters, Sweetheart? Letters and melodies?"

"Nothing would comfort me more." I accepted her kiss but while her lips sunk into my own, I wondered what she would do on the day that the letters stopped, and she received that fateful knock on her door. I needed to give her a promise that was true, one that I could hold to even if I were to fall. "I will avenge Sebastian," I reiterated. "I will."

"I have no doubts that you will. Victory has been in your stars since the beginning of time. You will make a name for yourself in this war, a legacy. Please do not forget New Jersey once you are named a champion. Do not forget your place in my music or the title that I have already gifted you with. Come home. Once this war is won, come home. We may live out the remainder of our days in separate households, but simply knowing that you are nearby and that perhaps, somehow, someday, you will grace me with your presence once more- oh, Sweetheart! Will you try, at least? Will you make it your ambition, above vengeance and esteem, to return to me?"

I breathed in, gazing at the halo of light that circumnavigated her slender shoulders and neck. It seemed a daunting task to look her in the eye and hold so much back, but I did. I wanted to live and yet, I knew with every fiber of my being that the next time we were together, I would be beneath her on that cold, marble surface, never to rise or hold her in my arms again. "I will try, my love. I will try."


	51. A War Within A War

We walked in silence on that shining morning. Silence- save for the clunking of my boots and the gentle pattering of footfalls. I watched the ground between us, captivated as ever by the gracefulness of her stride. My tongue was in shackles. Sylvia's was, too. The only rhetoric that passed between us had grown stale, tarnishing amongst the innumerable words that were now doomed to go unspoken. "Be kind to Charles." That was my Sylph's last request and although it had hence been covered, overgrown by an hour of her deep caresses and at least a dozen of those wild kisses of fire, I carried her words like the priceless gifts they were and vowed to hold true to them. She sensed my animosity, my desire to revolt against my commander. I would never harm him, place slander or insult on the name that he now shared with her in the place of my own. The tempest within me would wax mild when he was near and devour all that I was tenfold when he was out of sight. I would do this for her because it was her command and her word was sacred to me, above all others, God's included and certainly my own faulted conscience. There was a carriage waiting at her door. The driver was standing on the dirt road, tapping his foot with what I assumed to be impatience. I halted, covered by the shadow of a nearby building and pulled her by the hand, back into the darkness. She saw me break, she always did. I watched her sadness morph into soft-spoken courage. Our individual fates seemed so evident just then, she would outlive me. I wonder to this day if she had always known or if this was her moment of realization.

Lightly, she lowered her eyelids, tears clung to her lashes like morning dew. Her singular piece of cargo, her beloved violin, was placed on the ground between us. The doeskin gloves followed suit and with naked fingers, she touched the unshaved surface of my face. I bowed my head, pressing my forehead to hers and as my hands fell across the dainty framework of her shoulders, I felt the slightest convulsion of a sob rising from within her. Feeling her cry was akin to catching the vibrations of distant thunderclaps, they were present, they were real, but she kept them contained in the most admirable way. She was the soldier, the warrior, the hero all along. Just as my sense of kindness in my younger days had inspired her music, I had only lasted in battle this long by following her example. I should have said this then, but I did not.

Before turning away, before stepping out of the lingering shadows of the night and onto the carriage that would deliver her to New Jersey, she allowed her lips to fall upon mine. Her mouth was salted, mine was, too, with tears and sweat from our last night together. It was a simple waltz, I thought, a soft and shallow kiss that cut to the heart of me. I knew the geography of those glistening lips, I knew the texture of her tongue, how quickly and slowly those sweet gusts of breath could blow, I knew the hollow cavern of her mouth so well because it was my home. This one kiss, this soft farewell, was neither melancholy nor lustful. Her lips, full and soft as satin, warm and rich as the setting sun on an evening in midsummer, rolled and danced with varying degrees of pressure across my own. They were plump and loose at first, cascading freely wherever they landed. Towards the end, however, they tightened and when she moved away from me, I saw that she was smiling.

I continued to watch her while I bent towards the case at our feet. Her expression strengthened, and I saw in that single glance all that I had grown to love about Sylvia but also, an unexpected gift- gratitude. We both understood, without the luxury of discussion, the symbolism in the passing of the violin from my hands to hers. She kept the gloves folded over the handle and held her eyes steadily on my own when she backed away. The corners of my mouth might have twisted into a grin, the coating of tears that I had yet to shed might have temporarily given way, so she could see that same love reflected in my eyes. I forced my slouching, burdened shoulders forward and my back into straightness. The sunlight cloaked her, it gave new coloring to the golden, pinned and intricately twisted hair atop her sweet head. I was humbled to say the least, to see this majestic beauty smiling just for me. The city streets were lively now, eyes from every corner fell upon my stunning, ivory-clad lady. There, before all the world, while I hid away in the shadows and she sparkled like a diamond in the light, Sylvia gave a single, swanlike bend into a curtsy at my feet. It was low, so low that she could have kissed the dust and cobblestones.

I was unworthy of such a gesture. Even the King, himself would not require her to bow so lowly and for so long. Now, we had an audience. Shop keeps, lawyers, doctors and common pedestrians stopped in their tracks, pondering the same question as I- why me? Who was I? What had I done to be honored in such a way? She kept the lower portion of her body against the ground and allowed her head to rise above her knee. That grateful smile had not left her lips but a single tear glistened as it rolled towards her chin. I reached for Sylvia, prepared to help her rise but she continued to watch me, to burn a lasting memory of my face into her mind before standing on her own. My empty hand soon covered my mouth and eyes, stifling a pitiful march of incoming tears and gasps and eventually, sobs. She wanted to stay and comfort me, I could read her eager sorrow like a book. But by doing so, by catching my fall and drying my tears, the carriage would leave without her, the dragoons would be without their Captain and Sylvia and I would have broken apart and come to dust right there, in each other's arms.

We had to part and so, we did. It was there, on a cool New York morning, with my feet in the shade and hers on a widened sunbeam, that I watched her disappear from my life forevermore. I waited with my head in my hands, waited until she was gone from my sight, to kneel upon the road that now lay vacant. My fist struck the ground. My tantrum from the night before had not resolved. I was angry again, frightened and alone. My one saving grace, the only notion that kept me from tearing my own body to pieces then and there was my promise of vengeance. I placed my memories of lovely Sylvia on a shelf in the deepest corridor of my mind. There beside her in that jeweled tomb, I stored my own compassion, my moral compass and what remained of my mutilated heart. I cried in secret nightly, alone in my tent on the dark and dangerous highways sloping south. A fortress is not a fortress without a moat. I like to believe that every tear I shed spilled into that secret canal and looped around all that I still considered to be sacred in this cold, unfeeling world.

A mighty dam dismantled in my soul on the day that I was first summoned to Fort Carolina. News spread swiftly through the ranks but somehow, I was among the last to learn of John's execution. I stood with Colonel Tavington, familiarizing myself with the reflections on the floorboard. I quickly learned that when Lord Cornwallis spoke to the two of us, he showed little interest in me. No, he was far too preoccupied with holding Tavington's attention and readying himself for the next time that the defiant young colonel spoke out of turn. John was mentioned only in passing and Tavington shrugged the sad circumstance off, he cut to the heart of the matter, the purpose of our meeting on that crisp October morning. I held my composure. The colors of the dying trees outdoors were mirrored on the smooth surface of our commander's desk. I lifted my gaze to watch the wind break off a collection of leaves and send them swirling across the yellowing field nearby. The two men bickered over the cold, hard statistics of the soldiers we lost in our latest battle. I knew what was beginning between them, a war within a war. It would be my duty to remain levelheaded and try to maintain a semblance of peace within the company, but sorrow came first.

My soul was so easily altered, so helpless, so willing to be carried out to sea, crushed by the whitecaps and lost within the dark and swirling depths. No one in the room could see that I was drowning. I was decent now, not quite masterful, but decent and hiding my emotions behind a mask of stone. I tried to hold my thoughts at bay and keep them from returning to how cruel I was towards John. Cornwallis was cross now and Tavington, alarmingly, looked to me for support that I could not provide even if I wanted to.

"Captain," he jostled my shoulder, "tell him the truth. You were there. Tell him that I only gave the order to charge when I was certain that the damned rebels were advancing. Tell him." The sheer irritation in Tavington's icy glare hardened into detestation. I opened my mouth to speak, blindly hoping that the correct words would find me if I met them partway by making an effort. "You are useless. Do you hear me?! Useless!"

I returned to the reflections and wished myself outdoors, to be one with nature as she slowly turned the seasons. Tavington made a point to slam into my shoulder as he left me to fend for myself. Cornwallis leaned over his desk, massaging his temples for several seconds. "And to think," he said aloud, hardly caring if I heard or heard not, remained put or trailed behind my comrade, "I could have had taken Tarleton with me in his stead. Thank heavens for you, Captain Bordon," I caught a sliver of a grin on his gracefully-aged face, "I believe I mean that, too."

As I stood, bewildered, my shyness caused my gaze to meander. The autumnal hues of the outside world contrasted the room's green walls. Ever since that telling dream I had so many months ago, I associated death, John's death in particular, with September's painful transition into October. "S-sir?" I asked, halfheartedly, looking away from the windows, the floor and the nuance of shadows throughout the space. My wandering eyes found their mooring at last on a portrait on the wall, a new addition. The artist that he had commissioned to paint her surely found such a task daunting. He had tried, tried in vain to capture her spirit and trap it between the surface of the canvas and a thick coating of acrylic. To me, however, she appeared as hollow and cold as a porcelain doll. The tears that I had been holding back before trickled into the open air, at last.

"Beautiful, isn't she? Such a pity that she did not remove her gloves that day. What you see here is an artistic liberty based on my description. I must be the only man alive to have ever seen dear Sylvia's hands! Mind if I share a secret with you?" He waited for me to speak and when I did not, he proceeded, anyway. "They are bony and terribly chapped. Lovely, of course. Always lovely, however… She has the hands of a gardener, that one! Or a maid! Or a cellist!" That final statement grabbed hold of my collar and shook some life into me, but that was not his intention. He doted upon the painting and its many inaccuracies. To me, it was a distortion, an image of her through the furthest curve of a chalice filled with cloudy wine. I suppose it was how he saw her, and it comforted him to have that false icon nearby. It comforted me, too. I am not ashamed to admit that it soothed the gaping wound within me, numbed the shock of John's passing to realize that although she belonged to someone new, I viewed her in every dimension, while he saw her only in one.

He carried the portrait with him, hanging it amongst his other trivial images of England and great danes. Always, he would feel my eyes upon it. Always, he would use it as an invitation to converse. He was aware now that Sylvia and I had known each other for years. He was a highly intelligent man and, at the very least, must have realized that her desire to name their child "Boris" was my doing. Yet, there was a curtain obstructing his view, a wall of land blocking off the river of truths and connections between us. He never suspected that we had a past as husband and wife or that we had acted as lovers after she was his. He confided in me and just as my infatuation with Major Andre had so tragically eclipsed my homelife, learning how Sylvia was faring reduced the tears that I shed for my lost friend. That is, until they both intersected my heart at the same time. Allow me to explain, it was the eve of our second battle. Cornwallis had learned, by way of a worrisome letter, that Sylvia had fallen into debilitating despair. She had only written to me once informing me that she was producing her grandest opus yet. He described her condition to me. She locked herself away in the spare room upstairs- a common practice while she was working. What troubled us both was her refusal of rest, human contact and food. After nearly a week of starvation, the butler heard a recurring thump coming from behind her closed door. He was able to break in and go to her side, by then, the seizure had caused significant bruising to her arms and legs. Her commitment to music, I understood. This new Sylvia, the one who had emerged after the hanging, who was prone to violent seizures, was a mystery to me. She was resting when last he heard. The convulsions were few, but still prevalent. His fear was all-consuming, I could tell. As was my own.

The second that this troubling meeting seemed to find an unsteady resolve, Cornwallis remembered that he had confiscated something from Tavington that was intended for me. My already warped stomach wrapped around itself a second time and then a third when the letter fell into my hands. The seal was unbroken, thank heavens, but it forced me to wonder how many bits of personal mail Tavington had intercepted. It was a pretty note, a pretty note on a bit of expensive parchment. I touched the name in the corner, pondering how close John was to his end when he decided to write. Awkwardly, without asking how long the item was in the thief's possession, I thanked him and excused myself. Tavington, Banastre and Sylvia- those were the only living souls who knew of my romantic involvement with Major Andre. Of the three, Tavington was the most forthcoming about his amusement and disgust. It was likely that he snatched it under the premise that matters of the heart had no place in warfare. God knows, he muttered those words beneath his breath every time a dragoon's focus was blurred by lovesickness. I agreed. I knew and he knew how easy it was for my mind to go astray. So, why did I decide to read the letter? I suppose it was an effort to find closure, to rush my grief into a satisfying resolve. With a steady hand, I tore evenly into the seal.

 _To my sweet friend:_

 _By the time this letter finds you, there will be no path on earth to deliver your reply to me. I have spent endless hours, revisiting the sweet lease that I held in your heart. Your memory has kept me warm in this terrible place and if you were near, I would feel compelled to ask permission to meditate on your kiss as I breathe my last breath. Since I am no more, and that single breath has long since faded into nothingness on the breeze, it was for you. I could not give you all of my moments in life. So, you may claim my moment of death as your own. I did not speak to Colonel Tarleton with the intention of easing this weight from my shoulders. If it helps you to believe that I was a selfish man, however, I was never in the position to argue. I asked him to watch over Sylvia for you and to be her messenger. If the number of her letters decreases, write to him. He will tell you how she is faring better than anyone. I know that our last meeting was tumultuous. I know that I have wronged you beyond all wrongs and that no apology will ever remedy the pain that I have caused you. To tell you that I die now without a trace of resentment will anesthetize nothing. From the first moment that I saw you, softly dreaming in the recovery ward, I loved you. The day that you revealed your desire for me altered the course of my life forever. I should have known better, I should have honored your choice to wed Sylvia and my courtship with Miss Shippen. There is much to regret. If I had more time, I would ask you to cast your regrets on me. As I love you now, you may hate me. Pass your cares onto my ghost to bear. Call me a martyr, call me a fool, call me what you will. I shall continue to call you love from beyond the grave._

 _In a better world, perhaps. In a better world._

 _John_


	52. Loyalty

How does a man become wicked? Is there an aptitude for evil that lurks beneath his skin, festering, waiting to emerge from the moment that life begins? I came so unwillingly into this world and my resistance would be my downfall. As a boy, I fought against any integration into the wealth of social obligations that birthed and branched at the front door of my home. I, like my sweet Sebastian, refrained from speech and thrived in solitude. Was it wicked to do so? Was it wicked that, in knowing this, I stood idly by as silence swallowed him whole? I never learned what Sebastian would become, I only witnessed my own destruction.

This is where my story becomes peculiar, dear reader. One would think that a man could name each layer of sediment and stone after passing them by on his way to hell. I could tell you every sin that I committed leading up to the rivers of blood that my vengeance spilled over the Carolinas. I could. Yet, I did not know the ingredients for evil until I saw them unravel, inch by inch as another man neared salvation before my waking eyes. Tavington was submerged in hellfire when Annabelle reached for his hand. He was not a friend to me until the night that I found him on his back, reciting a sonnet of his own creation to a cluster of fireflies in the blue evening.

"I hear tell that you were married before… before that cavalcade of disgusting incidents with Major Andre," Tavington said once he found a natural break in his reverie. "Does marriage truly lead to unhappiness or were you no more than an isolated case, Captain?"

I crossed my arms over my chest, embarrassed that he had sensed me standing there and irritated that he decided to address my presence at all. "Weren't you the one who said that a war is no platform to discuss matters of the heart?" I caught his stubborn glare and admittedly, it was well-deserved. "Marry her. The schoolteacher from Waterford. You would be foolish to let your pride get in the way of joy. As for my marriage, that topic is not open for discussion," I saw him glower and was unafraid. Tavington had the same spoiled and snobbish sneer that Sylvia wore on occasion. It amused me. It shouldn't have, but it did. "The temptations that pulled me from my wife's side were a personal defect, Sir. My marriage was the very picture of joy and perfection. As was my wife."

"Personal defect," he pursed his lips, manipulating them into a sour grin. Annabelle seemed gone from his mind now, replaced by the amusement that he found in my misfortune. "I'd sooner marry a colonial than I would befriend one." Tavington stood and dusted off his behind, a silly thing to do after attempting to sear me with his wit. "That said, I fear for you. I yell 'charge' and you fall behind, you are shite at watching your own back and I have little interest in watching it for you. Major Andre and Colonel Tarleton may have stood in the way of musket fire for you, Captain, but I expect responsibility, maturity and how can I put this gently? Intellect- yes, yes intellect from those under my command. Do I make myself clear?"

"You fear for me?"

He scanned my face with those pale, emotionless eyes. They could not differentiate friend from foe. I had watched him slice into another man's throat while donning that same expression. "Your loyalties are in the right place and you are an above average combatant. Perhaps if you applied yourself, you could become excellent. So, yes. I consider you to be valuable, but you are only of value to me if you are alive. Now please, you have overstayed your welcome."

At one point during his halfhearted monologue, my eyes had wandered to the ground. Neither Tavington nor Cornwallis cared for this trait of mine and I waited for that commonplace command, _'Look at my face, Captain Bordon. Not at your boots.'_ Instead, he cleared his throat and when I looked up, I saw the smallest fraction of a smile on his lips. "We will be riding through Waterford again tomorrow, Sir. I can keep our men occupied while you-"

Tavington raised his right hand, cutting my half-formed thought in two. "My, what a romantic mind you have! What I would give to live in the olden days when love was considered to be a deadly fever that boils the brain until those affected go mad!"

Slowly, I drew in a narrow stream of breath and released it. The smallest miscalculation in a man's phrasing could set me off and he was in no position to speak of madness in front of me. I knew that he intercepted my letters from Banastre, letters containing sensitive information regarding the deterioration of Sylvia's mental state. "Pardon me." I started to make leave, but he stepped directly in my path. Tears were beginning to pool in my eyes and both of my hands had formed inadvertently into fists.

"Allow me to phrase this in a way that you might understand, Bordon," he loomed over me, each word containing a silent threat of death, "you and you alone are the author of your tragedy. Andre is no more. Your marriage is no more. You closed the door leading to Sylvia with your infidelity. Now, another man not only holds that key, he changed the lock. I need you to think. Think! If I can snatch your letters from the mail bag, imagine how easy it would be for Lord Cornwallis to do the same. Your life in New Jersey has ended. Refusal to rid yourself of the dead weight that you are bound to will only cause you to sink further."

"You are meddling!" I shouted and as I did so, his patience lifted like the morning fog. He was about to swing, but I did not care. "Those letters were meant for me! Not only for reading, but for responding to. I promised her that I would write. When last I heard, she had fallen ill and that she-" my gaze followed his to the camp. It was decent of him, I suppose, to ensure that there were no eavesdroppers although it was for the protection of his own reputation rather than my own. "Cornwallis rarely displays his emotions. He is nearly impossible to read, Sir. But I know that he loves Sylvia. I watch him every chance that I can find, waiting for the faintest sign of change. Losing her would affect him, somehow and I will not-"

"Sylvia," he spat her name out as though each syllable was unpalatable. "I wonder, did you give a damn about Sylvia that night at the theatre? Hm? When you and John were putting on that distasteful display in the balcony?"

I picked through my memory, retrieving only deconstructed phrases and broken bits of jargon that were forged on our commander's tongue and certainly not intended for my ears. Lord Cornwallis was right about Tavington, he was not a gentleman. Nor was I. I studied him for a few short seconds, contemplating what I saw. We were both wicked in our own ways, both self-serving and careless. "Both," I pondered aloud at last, "I loved them both, Sir. I believe that now, as payment for my sin, I am to die alone. Without either."

"A grim testament," his thin lips grinded against one another. He relieved them of their tension only once and I could have sworn that I witnessed a momentary smile within that pause. "What would your death say about me, I wonder? That I do not look out for my own?"

I parsed the ground between our boots, knowing for certain that his work was already cut out for him. Tavington, as ever, would offer up a pre-solved riddle to our commander. It was selfishness masquerading as compassion and he knew me well enough to determine where my stoicism would derail: that trace of humanity within him, that semblance of pure love that at one time might have matched my own. "You are to look out for me, then?"

In the place of the sneer that I had anticipated, that I had surely earned, Tavington inched away from me in defeat, voicing a tense, "I dismiss you, Captain. Good-night." when I was no longer within his field of vision.

It was hardly a promise that I could confide in- it was hardly a promise at all, but I found peace and reward within it during our dark stay in the golden Carolinas. You see, there was a soreness in my soul that zinged with pain each time Lord Cornwallis was present. Though Tavington insulted me freely and cared no more than a button for my wellbeing, he could sit where companionship was due. Companionship was what I required, after all, while living in fear. I was a dying man, a haunted man. Perhaps he saw that, perhaps he understood.

Knowing that my letters would no longer be intercepted and that Tavington would not reveal me, I sent letters out like flares into the darkest of nights. I wanted to be found, I wanted to be saved. I was tormented by the foretelling of my own demise. For months, I was frightened to dream at night, knowing far well that the moment I abandoned the present, I would be forced to revisit what awaited me at the end of the war. I had evaded death many times, escaping it narrowly like a coward. Now, I only knew that the end was drawing nigh and could meet me around any corner.

What if I had known all along? What if God had whispered in my ear the first time I saw that pampered child in her frills and lace snatch a parcel from my hands, duck beneath that dreaded marble table and spill its contents on the floor? Would I have believed that the tabletop clock would vanish, the porcelain figurines would be swept away and the fine crystal glasses would return to the kitchen to make room for me?

The devil within me that was born the day I buried Sebastian continued to whisper in my ear. In the daylight hours, I followed Tavington's commands. Each stalk of life I chopped down, each corpse that my hand created from living, breathing men took the place of my own. I killed because I sought to kill the bitter irony that I was what she anticipated now. My darling Sylvia would wait at her window and watch over misty hill and dale for my return. I felt her prayers, they found me at night and soothed me as best they could, but they could never alleviate my fears or banish my destiny.

I would be the parcel. I dreamed that dream a thousand times from the encampments and battlefields that I now called home. My life hung in the delicate balance of my own cowardice and my commander's hubris. The only potential escape that I found came in the form of a letter from Banastre Tarleton who Cornwallis had commissioned to take Tavington's place. Hushed conversations transpired and bled through the walls at Fort Carolina. Rumor reached my ear that perhaps I, too, would be stationed elsewhere.

Tavington did not learn this from me. But I knew that he felt threatened, I knew that his desperate search for The Ghost would soon derail. Waiting for Banastre to arrive, to speak to him and garner any word he carried from Sylvia caused my armor to crack. It took but one moment during an ambush, when Tavington was reloading his pistol and I was blindly depending on him to defend me as he always had, that a dagger tore into me. My uniform, the colors that I wore for King and country fell apart so easily. My loyalty, my misplaced loyalty in Sylvia's homeland, in Tavington's friendship, Banastre's swiftness and my own vengeance could no longer shield me.

I was dead to my commander the instant that my body hit the grass. He did not come to me and knowing that he would never come, I did not call out for him. I thought of my son, then, how quiet and dignified he was when death stole him away. That little baby, Christlike in his inability to cry or show any trace of selfishness at his birth, inspired me to let go in peace. Sebastian was with me, I felt his presence in the chattering cicadas and the rumbling bullfrog's throat beside the stream. He helped me hold to silence, to remain in a deathlike trance until the rebel soldiers came and went, removing the bodies of their fallen friends and sons.

After rolling onto my back, the searing pain transitioned to a frigid numbness. Even the warmth of the sun, high in the cloudless sky, blanketed me like a cool fog. My mouth was parched, my lips were dry and the flavor of blood turned stale on my tongue. I closed my eyes and imagined that I was home, that she was there to comfort me as my soul escaped and rose towards the heavens. I felt a hand then, so real, so palpable against my brow and convinced myself that it was hers.

"Sylvia?" I mouthed her name, but no noise resounded in my throat. "Sylvia?"

"Captain. Did he abandon you, Captain? You must come with me. Come with me this instant. I will save you. I promise," that voice, although familiar, was filled with panic that I never knew its owner to be capable of harboring. "I will save you!" He pleaded again. "Open your eyes. Be strong for just a while longer. Captain Bordon?" I blinked, flinching as the light filled my eyes. I was not ready to sit yet, let alone stand, but Banastre decided for me what I was capable of.

He pulled me into his arms, his slender albeit agile body arced and formed a surface for me to lean against. He held me close, as though I was his dearest friend in all the world and begged me to stay strong a while longer. I abided. I allowed this unearned companionship, this compassion out of nowhere to preserve my life in the presence of death. I found that it was stronger than wickedness born of fear, but what kept me alive, above all else, was to behold in full the wonders that a human heart is capable of holding. Even if that heart belonged to Banastre Tarleton.

 **A/N: Sorry for putting Bordon's story on such an extended hiatus, especially this late in the game. This fanfic is incredibly dear to me and after starting graduate school, I found myself putting it off because I wanted to do it justice. To remedy this (hopefully), I found a way to extend the story to one and perhaps even two more chapters. A lot of it is already written and just needs to be edited. More to come! Thank you for reading! X**


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